Sins of Heroes
by BFCIV
Summary: They fight two battles, one in their souls and one on the battlefield. Follow an eight man SEAL team as they fight the war of the lives. A work in progress.
1. Prologue

Dichotomy

What is a dichotomy? For starters, the dictionary states that it is, a separation into two divisions that differ widely from, or contradict each other. One of the biggest dichotomies is a division between humanity and machine. Is it possible for a human being to dismantle his humanity and become nothing more than a machine based on instinct? The thought is certainly scary to some. But the fact of the matter is that such people exist. They are men who have successfully learned to separate their humanity from their mechanistic tendencies.

Why focus on the separation between humanity and machine? It applies to this story. Here we meet eight men, eight skilled and perfect warriors. They kill without feeling, fight with perfection, and follow orders without second thought. As killers they are gods. As human beings they are filled with faults. They make mistakes, they fail, and they triumph. However perfect these men may be on the battlefield, they are far from it as human beings.

They fight two wars. One war is fought within their souls and the other is fought on the battlefield. Their enemies consist of men and demons. Men can take lives. But demons can take souls. These demons flourish and bask in the darkest depths of one's soul, feeding off the evils of vice and regret. Demons can destroy the most angelic of individuals changing them into monsters, destroying any and all traces of humanity. Men may die, but demons never do.

Such is the fight that these men must embark upon. They fight the battles that no one wants to fights, they see the hell that no one sees, and they never ask for recognition. They are never praised nor hated. Silent heroes they are. But even heroes are tainted with sin. Heroes are imperfect as the most ordinary of human beings. Supermen do not exist, but human beings do and it is human beings that are the strongest of heroes.


	2. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Roughnecks

There was something serene about this moment but he wasn't able to put his finger on it. Was it possibly the monotonous thumping of the rotor blades, the rustle of the wind, or the spectacular view? From up high he looked down at the pristine beach. Its blinding white sands sharply contrasting with the dark blue water. Wave after wave foamed upon the shores setting a tone of peace and tranquility. Untouched by civilization, he envisioned himself on the beach with the woman he loved, the woman he left behind. He could see her face, but she was not here, and he was not there. Realizing this, he sighed as the happiness disappeared like a ghost in the midst.

He hadn't even noticed the glaring rock music in the background. Listening for a moment he recognized the lyrics. _There must be some kind of way outta here. Said the joker to the thief. There's too much confusion. I can't get no relief._ Jimi Hendrix couldn't have said it better. Things were spiraling out of control and many were starting to forget why they were fighting in the first place. The war was a pointless one. Without a break in sight, they endured the relentless routine, day in and day out.

"Dillon!" the helicopter pilot announced into a headset. "We're approaching the HQ. Not too much activity, but the marines down there need some officers."

"Good ones all dead?" Dillon asked nonchalantly. "You know how it is."

"Short on time and short on men."

"Exactly." The pilot nodded.

"I get a welcoming committee?"

"An officer will meet you on the ground. Don't know what rank he is, but intel says he's in charge."

"Chewed up their chain of command that bad."

"Guess so. I haven't heard much either. All I know is they requested someone with combat experience."

"Was I the only one they could find?"

"Hey I don't make the orders I just repeat 'em." The pilot grinned.

Beginning its descent, the SH-60 garnered a heap of dust. Dillon put on his goggles to shield his eyes from the blowing sand. Feeling the helicopter rock back and forth reminded him that he was on the ground.

"Another day at the office, Ahmed!" Dillon yelled as he jumped out the helicopter.

"See you on the other side then!" The pilot laughed.

"I hope not!" He turned around, before running off.

As the dust began to settle Dillon noticed a figure running towards him.

"Welcome to Section Eight, Lieutenant… uh" The marine said.

"Dillon."

Dillon took a look around. A few tents were set up, mixed between a riff raff of brown adobe houses. On the rooftops he could see a few marksmen aiming downrange. Some marines hunkered down in their machine gun nests waiting for a battle that was raging a ways away.

"Been busy around here, uh…"

"Major Cooper…" The overworked commander replied. "Anyway, this is what's left of HQ."

"How many we lose?"

The major paused. "About four hundred in the last few days. Been real nasty here and a lot of our officers have gotten zipped up."

"How is it on the front?"

"They're taking heavy fire and they need reinforcements. You honestly would have thought that the Corps wouldn't be wrapped up in something this bad, but we are."

"War is war, Major."

"This is true. But it's my job to try and make some sense out of this mess. Administration always drives you up the walls. Even in war bureaucracy lives. The good ole boys back in the states always want some kind of repot. Kind of hard to do when your guys are constantly getting knocked off."

"I could imagine." Dillon said quietly. "So what adventures do I have to look forward to today?'

"You'll take a ride with a few of the troops. They'll fill you in on the rest. Love to stay and chat but I have to see what arrangements I can make to get our guys outta of the city. Good luck out there."

Dillon nodded in reply.

As the Major left, a Humvee pulled up with a few characters. These men were the official roughnecks, the true veterans of combat. Their combat fatigues were blood stained, their Kevlar vests were torn and their guns emanated signs of neglect and abuse. One of them incessantly chewed some bubblegum while another calmly puffed at a cigarette.

"Dillon?" A young sergeant asked.

"Yup. You?"

"I'm Marty." Offering a handshake.

"Where we going?" Dillon asked getting into the battered vehicle.

"To the other side of hell. Ever been?"  
"Just yesterday. Heard you boys are short on men."

"Yeah, we kinda are. Got in a hell'uva firefight yesterday. Lost about half our squad." The driver said driving towards the city.

"You all the one's that survived?" Dillon asked.

"Yup. If it weren't for a fast mover nearby we wouldn't be talking to ya." Marty told him.

"They were waiting for us. Should have never gone into that city." One of the other marines lamented.

"He's right. We were caught off guard. Their numbers were larger than ours and they fought a lot better than what intel guessed. I don't know how they dropped the ball on that one." Marty added.

"No aerial recon?"

"Not one damn bit."

"'Cause every time we send up a bird it either has to limp itself back to base." Another added.

"Or ends up not coming back at all."

"Going in blind then?"

"That's a good way to put it, sir. All we're doing now is doing what we like to call hit-and-runs."

"Hit and runs?" Dillon was puzzled.

"Just take one of these babies." One of the marines banged on the Humvee's armor. "Drive like a bat outta hell, pick up the guys left behind, and get back in one piece."

"Is that what we're doing today?"

"Yes sir. We wanna get everyone out of the city before we pull out of this place. A good number are still waiting to get out. But they're only holding up but so well."

"Was this the chain of command's idea?"

"What chain of command?" One of the marines chuckled. "Yeah, if you consider a bunch of sergeants and a couple of lieutenants battalion commanders."

"Yeah, Battalion HQ was demolished. Seems like our friends learned how to drop bombs on buildings. Blew it away." A marine explained.

"How'd Major Cooper make it then?"

"By deciding to go into the city with his men."

"Wanted to see how bad things were with his own eyes."

"The old man didn't feel right about sending his men in without putting himself in harms way."

"So his reward is not gettin' blown to kingdom come. Sounds like a brave guy."

"Who, Cooper? Not a chance in hell."

"Yeah. That was the first time he did that. We didn't see him shoot anyone when we went in."

"Only thing he said was, _go that way. Move over here. Hurry up_. Just movin' us around like chess pieces."

"And you noticed he's staying back there. He's too scared to go in with us."

"Let me ask you something, sir."

"Shoot." Dillon allowed.

"You got a team of your own don't ya?"

"Sure do, but they're scattered in and around here with the rest of your buds."

"Don't you guys fight best as a team?"

"We do. But someone obviously doesn't know that. I don't understand the strategy one bit."

"Strategy?" A marine smirked, "Try this war."

"Ain't that the truth?"

Dillon let his arm hang out the open window as he tried to understand how things had gotten this bad. For one thing, he thought these marines were being a little too hard on the Major. The things that happened here were out of his hands. All this Major Cooper could do was hope and pray he was making the right decisions whenever he gave people orders. Too bad these young marines didn't believe it. But that wasn't their fault either. This war was trying everybody's souls. He could only imagine how hard it was for a major to suddenly be in control of a few battalions. That was a general's job and no generals were in the immediate area. Dillon tried to imagine how his team was fairing. His team, a team that _he_ was supposed to lead was dispersed all across the Yemeni coast. _We fight better as a team._ But those in charge of the sending men to and fro were running out of good ideas. They wanted to make the best decisions they could. Fighting a losing war served to make such tasks more difficult than they should have been. These men were losing their minds and Dillon swore they did when someone came up with the bright idea to mix up SEALs with marines. Marines were a group the sailor respected and did not mind fighting with. But SEALs operated differently from the marines. They knew how to fight, but things would have been better if Dillon was leading _his_ team into harm's way. A lot more could be accomplished that way. _Damn, war sucks._

---

Patience is a trait often revered as a treasured virtue. Only the most disciplined of individuals exercise this quality, exhibiting degrees of control and cunning that separates them from the masses. The patient are people who do not squander their time on moments of immediate gratification. Instead they remain fortuitous in their continual search for something worthwhile and meaningful.

Children are traditionally not known for patience. They are anxious creatures by nature and cannot remain still even if their lives depended on doing so. There is an obvious reason for this. Life is a simple endeavor to them. All they know is playgrounds, laughter and plenty of love. They are not preoccupied with the daily stresses that come with age and responsibility. But not every child is as fortunate.

His childhood was witness to countless displays of anger and violence. As a child he was amused by his father's drunkenness. In fact, he would laugh whenever his father would pass out on the floor, considering it a random display of comedy. But the comedic displays soon gave way to blatant violence. Michiko remembered the first night it happened. A loud noise downstairs had awoken him. Curious as to what was going on he moved to the top of the stairs to have a look. At first he thought this was a bad dream. _Why is daddy hitting mommy? Why is daddy screaming? Why is mommy crying?_ These images were difficult for him to comprehend and it saddened him.

Coping with the dysfunction became an emotionally draining task. Again and again Michiko ended up being the man of the house. His father would sit on the chair in a drooling slumber while he took out the trash, bought the groceries, and cleaned up the house. Michiko's mother was not much help either. In her drowning bout with depression she soon became addicted to sleeping medications. Michiko patiently suppressed his anger at the unfair situation and began to shy away from the world around him.

Then everything changed one night. Coming home one night after a long day at work Michiko found his father stumbling around the house drunk. His father would hurl hurtful insults at him, which most times before, he usually ignored. This time was different. On reflex Michiko found his fist heading right for his father. Unable to recover his father stumbled to the ground rendering him unconscious. After the moment had come to pass, Michiko stood in disbelief. He felt himself gasping for air unsure of whether or not he had just killed his father. Moving on instinct Michiko ran up to his room, gathered a few belongings, left his hometown and never turned back.

Michiko soon became a loner. Friends were few and far in between and significant others were nothing but a distant fantasy. They could not possibly understand where he came from and they never would. Dealing with the loneliness became another painfully patient endeavor. But as always Michiko held everything together. He remained this way ever since. Patience was a virtue he acquired the hard way.

One man walked right by without taking a second glance. Another saw nothing and decided to take a leak a few inches from where Michiko lay. That really tested his patience and for a moment Michiko felt tempted to take out his combat knife and go surgical. That would have been possible under different circumstances, but now was not the time. Michiko had to remain still, silent, and hidden from view regardless of who or what decided to stand right next to him. It was annoying but he had put up with much worse things.

He had become one with the landscape, an arid stretch of bush that lined the edge of a cliff. Being motionless and still for twelve hours was becoming a pain in the ass, literally because of a bothersome twig. Regardless of the pain Michiko had to remain where he was. The enemy would be here any moment.

In the distance Michiko noticed the tell tale squeak of tank tracks. They would be coming from the north as they usually did. He had done this kind of thing before and knew the routine._ They always show up on time_.

Soon they appeared on the valley floor below. With binoculars he got a better view of the enemy. Every truck and every tank moved along with impunity. Nothing stood in their way. _Ten MBTs, ten APCs, and twenty trucks_, Michiko counted. They moved very quickly on their way to kill more of his fellow warriors. There was not a whole lot Michiko could do for them. All he could really do was report the path and numerical strength of the enemy. That may have seemed rather insignificant to Michiko. But for those locked in battle, it could make all the difference.

As the military column faded in the distance, Michiko put away his binoculars and made some notes on a map. The next ten minutes were spent crawling to a hidden ravine where no one would see him. Several days ago he planned his egress making sure it led directly to the point of extraction. Everything had gone as it planned. If only his childhood had been that way.

---

You play with fire and you're bound to get burned. The proverbial saying was true, but he preferred his own. _You play with bombs and you blow shit up_. Nothing was better than using blunt wisdom to get your point across.

His unique talent stemmed from a natural clumsiness. Just about anything he laid hands upon usually ended up breaking. Someone once told him that being a destructive klutz was a blessing in disguise. Young and eighteen, he would have believed none of it. Later however, this mindset would begin to change.

At that moment Kaufman never imagined the Navy, or anyone else for that matter, would need his natural talent for being a destructive klutz. Today, someone would need to employ this unique natural talent. A group of marines were awaiting evacuation in the middle of Sana'A. Rescuers were on their way, but they had one problem. Enemy forces were on their way to the city as well. The rescue force, consisting only of a dozen helicopters, was in no shape for a drawn out fight. Taking on the enemy may not have been an option but deceiving them was. It was hoped this act of deception would slow the enemy's advance thus buying the marines some more time. Commanders believed a massive explosion would shift the enemy's attention away from pursuing the waiting marines. Nothing promised them the tactic of smoke and mirrors would really work. Not that the realization was going to stop a few from trying.

A few fuel depots were scattered around the city's outskirts. The largest of them was guarded by a good number of enemy soldiers. Dubbed Fort Knox, the facility was safely nestled in between some distant foothills. Breaking in was going to be a challenge. But that didn't bother them. They were going after the gold, which in this case was precious time.

Kaufman felt a little odd having a marine tell him what to do. But he wasn't here to complain. He had a job to do. Besides it wasn't as bad as it could have been. At least he was with Force Recon, the best marines without argument. _These guys can watch my back anytime._

They made quick work of the periphery guards, after which they silently slipped through the fence. Once inside they were sure to stay out of sight of interior guards. Besides, there was plenty of equipment in the fuel depot to hide behind. There were a couple of close calls but the surprises where dealt with quickly. Kaufman had to admit, some of them were SEAL material. But he was too proud to admit it.

Coming upon a massive fuel tank the marines fanned out to cover Kaufman as he got to work. He placed a brick of plastic explosive upon the structure and then motioned to his team that he was ready to move on. The same process was repeated again and again, darting from fuel tank to fuel tank. Kaufman did not have to put explosives on anything else. The residual explosions from the eight fuel tanks would be more than enough.

The band of warriors wasted no time on the egress. A few gunshots were exchanged in the process but it was nothing that Kaufman or the marines couldn't handle. Making their way to the HMMWV hidden behind some bushes, they quickly headed back towards the city to join the other marines. Kaufman, stopping for a moment, looked back at the fuel depot, with the detonator in hand. When he figured it was safe he detonated the explosives followed by a blinding display of white and orange. _Super klutz strikes again_, he thought entering the truck. The hard part was over, but still the enemy could be anywhere. But a few rounds from the _fifty-cal_ could take care of that.

---

It was madness. Blood covered the floors and screams reverberated down the halls. An unsuspecting onlooker may have considered this place to be a slaughterhouse. Navy corpsmen were trying their hardest to keep the wounded alive. But the screams and dripping blood were turning the cramped room into a madhouse. Delaney may not have been in a war zone right now, but he might as well have been. Visions of blood and gore did not deter him from doing his job. It was his duty to save lives. Despite being able to stand the sight of blood, the horrors of this madness were starting to wear on him.

"Okay, apply pressure while I try to stop this bleeding femoral." Delaney advised a nearby corpsman.

The corpsman nodded in approval behind the veil of her medical mask. Realizing she was ready, Delaney began his painful medical operation. Not taking the time to warn the wounded marine, Delaney and his fellow sailor began one of many attempts to stop the bleeding. In a scream only found in nightmares, the marine bawled in pain. _Hang in there kid_, Delaney didn't say.

Wide eyed, the female corpsman was amazed at the sight of blood spewing skyward covering her lime green scrubs. Delaney saw that the young nurse was clearly overwhelmed. But he had to admire her courage. Most men he knew would have passed out at such a sight. This brave assistant, fortunately, had not.

"You!" Delaney beckoned to another corpsman.

"Yes sir!" The young man quickly replied.

"Assist Miss Aud in keeping that femoral artery from bleeding. I'm ready to close this wound." Delaney said.

Delaney reached for some stitches. He looked rather anxiously at the face of the young marine. The screaming had died down, a sign the young marine's bodily endorphins were working overtime.

"NEEDLE AND SCISSORS!" Delaney yelled out.

A nearby corpsman quickly placed the tools in the SEAL's mouth. His bare hands were already covered in blood and occupied with the stitches.

"Okay, here we go people." Delaney announced, putting the scissors into his right hand holding what looked to be a threading needle with his left.

Delaney's hands trembled slightly as he proposed to stitch the massive gash in the marine's leg. So far the endorphins were keeping up. This marine was in a whole different world right now. Besides, there was enough screaming already going on, enough to drive anyone insane.

Ever since childhood, Delaney wanted to be a doctor. But after Delaney's father died, his mother struggled to make ends meet. College was not a reality, putting medical school out of the picture indefinitely. But Delaney was determined to not give up on his dream. The Navy seemed to be the only viable option and it was the Navy that taught him to save lives. Joining the elite Navy SEALs was moreover a side note. In the current moment Delaney was fulfilling his childhood dream. He just wished that dream did not have to be fulfilled under these dire circumstances.

---

Inseparable described their bond. Unbreakable defined their loyalty. Teamwork taught them to fight as one. Despite these accolades, many chose to identify them as the three stooges. Though the moniker was not indicative of their combat abilities, there were those few off-duty instances that made such a nickname all the more pertinent to their personalities.

Confidence is a trait that many people associate with blind pride. But confidence does not deserve such an association. There are those who exist that are both confident and humble. Milloy was one of those people, a man that simply believed in himself. Not once had he boasted about how good he was. In reality, he was really quite silent about his exploits. War was never something Milloy spoke fondly of.

Jim Stark, as most people would agree, was the ultimate rebel. He was an angry guy who had a family that never loved him. Anyone could have easily understood why Stark was so frustrated. But not everyone felt sorry for him. According to one young sailor by the name of Garson, Stark just needed his ass kicked. A rebel in his own right, Garson never had it easy. He hailed from a past of overburdening parents, failed relationships, a stint of homelessness, and a hard time getting on his feet. But how he made it to this point in his life was a miracle. Garson was not a firm believer in God so he assumed such a miracle was the result of blind luck.

Sometimes the pressures of war got to people. Comic relief was often a quick fix for such pressures. One would have never thought of SEALs as comedians but Mendez broke that stereotype. Whether he got shot or was on a long patrol, humor always seemed to escape his lips. On quite a few occasions Mendez would use other people as the brunt of his jokes, which had resulted in a sporadic series of bar fights. For what it was worth though, Dillon put up with Mendez mainly because he felt it necessary to keep some sanity in his team. Mendez was the centerpiece of that sanity. Whenever a plan went to hell Mendez was there to offer some relief. Considering combat offered no relief, Mendez was just as important as his commander.

It worked a little bit. A good portion of the enemy force had diverted their attention to the fuel depot. But the other part of the force seemed destined to make sure these marines stayed in Sana'A as corpses. The stooges however weren't going to let that happen along with the marines.

The University of Sana'A became the chosen location for the evacuation. A couple hundred marines were scattered around the structures surrounding an empty soccer field. Apart from every other part of the city this place was left virtually unscathed. But everyone was quickly reminded that they were at war once the enemy proceeded to move on the university.

Garson, Milloy, and Mendez along with numerous other marines, barricaded themselves on the top of some bleachers that were fortunately made of concrete. They fired relentlessly ducking every so often from the endless salvos of gunfire. Bullets chipped off the concrete little by little ricocheting and bouncing everywhere. Grenades exploded while radios screeched with desperate yelling. It was quite difficult for the ordinary man to maintain his sanity in such a situation.

"SANTA MARIA!" Mendez yelled over the cacophonous gunfire, "WE SHOULDA CALLED THIS THE ALAMO!"

"OR THE WILD WEST!" Garson replied.

"JUST KEEP FIRING ON 'EM FELLAS." Milloy reiterated. "DON'T NEED ANY OF THESE BASTARDS DOWNING THOSE HELOS WHEN THEY GET HERE!"

"SURE THING BOSS!" Mendez joked, reloading his rifle.

It was a shame to see a place that had nothing to do with warfare littered with violence. The once orderly sandstone pathways lined with perfect rows of palms were now being overcome by the chaos of hell. A few dead bodies were scattered about the small areas of vibrant green grass mixed in between piles of massive rubble. Burning tanks with soldiers slung limp over the machine guns stood motionless next to the simple yet modern brick buildings. Death did not belong on the campus of such a wonderful institution. But the visages of war appear wherever they wish.Those fortunate enough to be alive darted from cover to cover stopping only to fire on the marines. While the images of the dead were very discouraging, the tenacious drive of the soldiers proved to be unceasing. With some success they would either wound or kill a few Americans. But they took no time to cheer. Celebration could only come after they killed all the Americans.  
For a brief moment the three doubted they would make it out of the battle, alive. And they had good reason to think so as their eyes locked to the sight of four rumbling tanks. Twelve men had died, trying to destroy the last ones, now burning hulks of metal. A few marines decided to hurry to a more secure position, hoping to avoid the fury of four armored behemoths. From their point of view, the massive vehicles were nothing short of fuming dragons. Trembling earth announced the presence of these angry beasts. With a ferocity matched only by a pack of vicious wolves, they ripped apart anything in sight. Their swinging turrets took on the persona of a mythological demon, able to paralyze unsuspecting victims with its horrific wrath.

Then something suddenly occurred to the embattled marines. Flanks were exposed and a massive influx of troops was just beginning their push towards the soccer field.

"SHIT! WHO GOT FLANK! WHO GOT FLANK!" A marine asked.

"MARINE! ON ME!" Another ordered.

Marines quickly scrambled away from the bleachers to cover the newly exposed flanks on either side. Gunfire crisscrossed over their heads as they ran for cover. They desperately tried to counter the initial push. But their efforts proved futile in the way of superior numbers. Falling back the marines shot sporadic bursts at the pressing enemy. A few of them fell to the ground, the bullets cutting through their flesh like razor blades.

In the middle of the madness, the stooges were busy moving towards the tanks. It was bad enough that enemy troops had broken through. Some of that could be allowed. But letting the tanks break through could not happen. For if they did then it would certainly be the end of all things.

It didn't take long for the enemy to take notice of them. As they ran for cover gunfire kicked up the dirt around their feet. Reacting on reflex the sailors raised their weapons and returned fire in the general direction of their enemies. The tactic may not have killed anyone, but at least it was keeping people's heads down. That bought these SEALs a few precious seconds to get to cover.

When they reached cover they took only a few moments to pop up and finish off the last few rounds in their magazines, immediately loading new ones. A few meters left of them were five dead marines. Their bodies were sprawled across the hard pavement, contorted in all kinds of positions. Pools of drying blood radiated from their torsos, lifeless eyes staring towards the sky. The mouths remained open, an eerie symbol of corpses now void of souls. _It sucks to die with your boots on_, Garson thought to himself. Mendez, sobered by the ghastly sight, remained uncharacteristically silent while Milloy looked around for the rocket launchers the once living marines tried to use.

There they were, three slender green tubes laying a few yards away from the corpses. But there was a problem, the launchers were out in the open. Milloy saw he had one smoke grenade and one fragmentation grenade. If he used the smoke the enemy wouldn't see him, but then he wouldn't be able to aim the rocket launcher properly. Choosing the fragmentation "frag" grenade meant he would have to make one hell of a throw. Milloy was not a gambler, but he figured that now was the time to make a decision. Deciding on the frag, he looked for a place to throw it. Most of the enemy soldiers were running around to take up positions. He figured he'd have to hurl it towards a lot of men.

"OKAY GOT AN IDEA!" Milloy announced.

"SPIT IT OUT!" Garson replied, firing a quick burst from his weapon.

"I GOT ONE FRAG! I'LL TOSS IT AS FAR AS POSSIBLE! DON'T KNOW IF IT'LL KILL ANYONE. BUT I'M BETTING ON THE TIME IT'LL GIVE US!"

"WHAT ARE WE WAITING FOR?" Mendez asked.

"JUST WAIT 'TIL I SAY GO! WHEN THAT HAPPENS WE TAKE THOSE ROCKET LAUNCHERS AND BLOW THAT ARMOR TO HELL!"

Believing the moment was perfect Milloy stood up from behind the low wall, quickly looked for a something to throw at. The corner of his eye caught a machine gun nest. Seeing that as the most dangerous threat, he hurled the grenade in that direction.

"GO!"

Shortly following the explosion Milloy led his teammates to the launchers. They quickly grabbed the weapons and fiddled with them amongst the inaccurate but dangerous gunfire. One had blood smeared across the trigger. Another had a wet chunk of some bodily organ strewn across the weapon sight. But that did not deter these men from moving along as planned. They each checked to make sure a round was in the tube. _This is going to be tight,_ Milloy figured. Four tanks had to be destroyed and they had only three rocket launchers. Milloy knew the M-1 was a formidable tank, and for a moment he doubted whether or not a clean hit on the turret would do any damage at all. If the round just happened to bounce off the tank, then he, Garson and Mendez would be in a world of hurt. A multitude of things had to be considered but there was such little time. Milloy finally agreed to take his chances with the rocket launchers.

They quickly hoisted the tubes over their right shoulders. Closing one eye and focusing with the other they pointed the crosshairs towards the tanks. _Too good to be true_, Garson thought. These tank crews had no idea what was about to hit them.

"ON MY MARK…" Milloy advised, "AND… FIRE!"

Squeezing the trigger, they felt the launch tubes jolt a little. Rockets were off and hurtling towards their victims. The stooges froze for a brief second almost like superstitious worshippers believing the slightest move could alter the universe. Then, without a noise, they watched the rounds smack the armor without an explosion or noise. _Oh shit_, Milloy thought, _this is it_. Suddenly, a horrific scream erupted from one of the tanks. Shortly thereafter a man covered in flames climbed from out of the vehicle waving wildly and yelling from the extreme heat. Simultaneously, other men were climbing out of their tanks as well, suffering much the same fate. It would have been humane to shoot them but Milloy, Garson, and Mendez held off. Gunfire would only give away their position. They would have remained where they knelt, but the incoming gunfire forced them back to cover.

Then came the sporadic pops of exploding rounds. At first it looked like the tanks had been virtually unscathed. A closer look on the sides of the turrets soon revealed a small black hole where the round had punctured the armor. _Hell in a breadbasket,_ Milloy thought, _one hell of a way to die_. The real damage was wreaking havoc inside of the tanks. Soon, the rounds left in the magazines would begin to heat, after which the turrets would be ejected from the chassis rendering the terrifying vehicles useless.

One by one the turrets began to fly from the tanks, garnering quite a deal of unwanted attention. Just as the SEALs were about to run back towards the marines, a tank came roaring through the smoke.

"Don't stare at it dumb ass." Milloy hissed, quickly dropping behind the low wall.

Garson and Mendez took Milloy's lead.

"Think he saw us?" Mendez asked.

Garson was foolish enough to take a look.

"SHIT! SHIT! GOT DAMMIT! ALRIGHT ALREADY!" Garson yelled, quickly escaping the flurry of bullets.

"Yup…" Milloy answered. "Thanks to Garson."

"Yeah buddy, real smooth." Mendez teased.

Once again, the stooges had gotten themselves in another tight spot. Dillon would have shot them himself, if he was here. _Heroes only end up dead, _they could hear him saying.

Incessant gunfire rained over their heads. The only thing standing between them and the constant flow of bullets was a low-lying brick wall. Doing their best to avoid the bullets, they scrunched behind the beaten wall exhausting every inch of space.

"HOW LONG IS HE GONNA KEEP THIS UP?" Garson asked.

"UNTIL HE'S SATISFIED OR UNTIL THE BAD GUYS KILL US!" Milloy angrily answered.

Mendez suddenly decided to fire a burst of gunfire dangerously close to his comrades. Garson was about to yell out in surprise, but raised his rifle and fired in the same direction once he realized what was going on. Enemy troops were coming at them from all sides.

Their minds paid no attention to thoughts of death. If it were to happen, it would happen. But for now, the only things they saw were targets. Without expression or voice the three fired on soldier after soldier. They tried to shrug off images of their bodies going down with guns blazing. Unfortunately, the task was becoming more and more difficult as time wore on. The enemy kept on coming without an end in sight.

Milloy reached down for one more magazine realizing that it was his last. His only other option after running out of rifle rounds was to switch to his Sig Sauer pistol. Even when those bullets ran out, Milloy figured he could always charge someone with a knife.

"ON MY LAST, GUYS!" Milloy yelled out, taking a few shots toward a charging enemy.

"YOU AIN'T THE ONLY ONE!" Garson replied.

"YEAH! SO AM I!" Mendez added.

Realizing he was low on ammo, Milloy began to count every round he loosed in the back of his mind. _22, 21… 20, 19, 18… 17-12… 11,10… 9, 8, 7… 6-0._ Squeezing the trigger Milloy only heard the click of the chamber. Automatically he switched to his pistol and aimed towards some of the enemy. Just as he fired, he saw the soldiers scramble in all directions. Then he saw the ground kicking up dust, quickly realizing that a helicopter was beginning its strafing run. Quickly pulling his legs back, he took a moment to look up.

"'BOUT TIME THOSE GOD DAMNED COBRAS GOT HERE!" Garson yelled out.

"AND SAY GOODBYE TO THE TANK." Mendez laughed.

An armada of helicopters raced overhead, descending upon the center of the soccer field.

"WHAT'S THE USE OF STANDING AROUND LIKE THIS? I AM NOT MISSING MY CAB THIS TIME!" Milloy announced.

They quickly began moving back towards the helicopters. Running, they scanned back and forth for any enemies that would have possibly ended their plans for some much needed R and R. It soon became apparent however, that their enemies were busy trying to counter the two Cobra gunships hovering overhead. Killing a few sailors must have been scratched off their to-do list a few moments ago. A few enemy soldiers watched in disbelief as three American sailors ran past them unopposed. This was too easy, they all thought. But as long as the bullets weren't flying, there wasn't really much of a reason to be concerned. A marine standing on the rear ramp beckoned the three of them to hurry up. Reaching the ramp, the marines yelled to the pilot that it was finally time to go.

"That was fast." Milloy laughed.

"You ain't lyin'." Garson added.

"And if that wasn't fun. I don't know what is." Mendez managed.

They had left hell. For a time anyways.

---

Love was only a distant fantasy to him. Out on the battlefield that distance seemed even longer. Several dead and wounded bodies were a testament to that, as well as his cold heart. Maybe he was losing touch or maybe he just being him. Had all this death and destruction managed to desensitize his soul to the point of numbness? Regardless of the answer it really didn't matter at this point. Finding a way out was his only concern.

It was all supposed to be so simple. Just make it to the extraction point and enjoy the ride home. But like a romantic relationship, things soon got very complicated. A few moments after liftoff, a wayward rocket slammed into the rear rotor of the helicopter, forcing it into a cyclonic spin. Desperately, the aircraft's occupants held on against the relentless forces of gravity. The impact was going to be rough and a rough impact it certainly was.

Before the crash, he could just make out the pilot's last words. Taking a look at the pilot, whose head was smashed against the console, remembering those words was a haunting experience. Half an hour before this pilot was alive and well, talking and joking just moments before the catastrophic crash. Now he had a bloody heap for a head, partially hidden behind the veil of a cracked helmet. Hopefully his loved ones would be spared the gruesome image. His lifeless finger had a ring on it, implying that some beautiful young woman had just become a widow. War never failed to break hearts.

The giant helicopter was propped on one side. A few bodies sat limp in their seats while a few others lay lifeless on the grated floor. The cockpit glass was fully shattered and the tail boom was completely sheared off exposing the rear of the helicopter. Those that managed to survive the crash surrounded the wreck. Some of them had sustained broken bones, others, painful gashes. Despite injury, they could still squeeze a trigger.

Dusty buildings surrounded the crash site. Narrow alleyways lead off into the dirty streets that, for now, were terrifyingly silent. This part of the metropolis was a ghost town. Not a voice could be heard and not a footprint could be seen. The only signs that people ever lived around here were a few burnt out cars scattered around the broken helicopter. Piles of household junk, which included televisions, old clothes, and car engines, decorated the otherwise bare corners and walls. Occasional artillery whistled in the distance. But it was too far away to be of any real concern. None of the survivors knew how long the peculiar silence would last and none of them really wanted to find out.

At least the radio worked. That was probably the only good thing that had happened all day. But rescuers said they were too tied up to get to the crash site at the current moment. The best advice they could offer was, _hang in there_ and _hold 'em off_.

"Hey, Laz… What's his name?" A marine asked.

"Lazzare." The young sailor corrected him.

"Sorry about that Petty Officer, sir." The marine quickly apologized.

"Don't worry about it Corporal." Lazarre replied. "No use in getting angry about a name. We got worse problems to worry about."

"I guess so." The marine sighed.

"How's the crew chief doing?" Another marine asked.

"Banged up pretty bad. He can still talk, but I don't know." Someone answered.

"Damn Cueves, show some respect, he can fuckin' hear you." Came the tacit reply.

"Don't yell at the kid, Sergeant. I'm doing fine even though I can barely feel my legs." The wounded crew chief responded. He had broken both his legs and his right arm, he was in a lot of pain but could still manage to remain quite cheerful. "And besides, like Navy boy over here said, we got worse problems to worry about."

Lazzare could not help but release a brief grin, "Good to see some optimism."

"Wish I could see it that way, sir." A marine mentioned, "'Cause that last radio transmission ain't seem too hopeful to me."

"Well they could have done a better job lying to us." Lazzare joked.

Light laughs from the marines.

"But." He continued. "It's not like our boys and girls to leave us behind like this. Besides they got shit so hot to deal with, it coulda only come out Satan's ass."

"Hate to see the toilet bowl then." One of the marines smirked.

"Shoot, we're in it." Someone else joked.

Lazzare looked around, "Yup. I'd say so." He laughed.

The other marines laughed as well. But it soon died down, giving way to a solemn quiet. Waiting was the only thing left to do and waiting was something Lazzare was accustomed to. All he ever did was wait, for love that is. Somebody once told him that the search for love was a long and patient journey. Okay, he could believe that, but even the patient eventually found who they were looking for. Lazzare tried to be patient, and believed he was being patient for way too long. He wondered if love had abandoned him, left him behind, or forgotten about him altogether.

And what was the use of trying? Every woman he had met in his life had turned him down. They never gave him a chance. He was worthless to them, nothing but a hopeless case in their eyes. Was he really that bad, that bothersome? Did he try too hard or did he not try hard enough. Women were complicated creatures to him and he could not figure out what other men did to get their attention. Love was elusive as he was, always hiding and always running. Maybe he would get the chance to catch up. But at the rate he was thinking, he believed he never would.


	3. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

In Peace and War

Garson missed peacetime, not really for moral reasons, but for more practical ones instead. You did not fight wars in peacetime, the main reason why Garson preferred peace. But even in peace he engaged in combat operations. The difference between operating in time of peace and in time of war was measured in stress. Most, if not all, of the missions he participated in during peacetime lasted no more than a few days. Those missions were usually extracting Americans in tight spots or performing reconnaissance. And when he wasn't out on a mission, he was either training foreign soldiers or training with his team. Garson did have to admit however, that training could and did take a toll on him. But it sure as hell beat being on the battlefield. _At Dam Neck, the targets don't shoot back_.

Whenever Garson needed to think things through he went to the weight room. Sometimes he would work out by himself, but Mendez decided to work out as well. The extra company was a good thing Garson figured._ At least I'll have someone to put up with my bitchin'_, he smirked.

"You think we gonna get one more?" Garson asked grabbing two fifty-pound weights.

"One more what?" Mendez asked picking up a medicine ball. "Mission?"

"Yup." Garson grunted.

"Well." Mendez paused. "We finished the evac, don't see any reason to go back."

"Home it is then." Garson took a break.

Mendez shrugged. "I couldn't imagine any other place to go. Heard we're steaming back to Greece for rotation. But you know how they like to surprise us here."

"I hate it when they do that. Wonder if they'll rotate us back stateside and let some other platoon take over."

"I don't think so. They'll probably want all of us operating here, just to keep the boys and girls back at home happy."

"Sending information back to people who won't do a damn thing with it."

"Tough shit, huh?"

"Guess so. We'll guess we'll be back here for another tour of duty."

Mendez had not really thought about coming here a second time. By default he was a person that took things one day at a time. Mendez hadn't really mastered the technique of planning for things weeks in advance. His mother had told him that was a bad habit that would eventually catch up to him. But Mendez never paid much attention to the innocent threat. _Whatever works_, he often laughed to himself. Still, Garson's words on coming back lingered. Holding on to them briefly made him doubt his strategy for life. Should he have considered death as an end for him or was such a consideration just the musings of someone who was overanalyzing? For a moment Mendez thought of his head getting blown apart. Surprised he felt a shiver run down his spine. Death never managed to scare him like this. _What's going on hombre?_ Shaking his head he began a series of stretches.

There was not a thing to look forward to. Garson knew he'd be headed to Greece for a time. But after no more than a week he would be right back where he started; in combat, in hell. Feeling a little frustrated he increased the pace of his curling routine. Forcing a grunt, his body reminded him to slow down. Stubbornly, he ignored and continued. _Where is my break?_ Coming from a difficult past, relief was something Garson rarely experienced. Anger started to flood his thoughts once more. His family, teachers, bosses, and even fellow sailors beckoned him to explode. They never stopped talking and they never let him breathe. Demons of insult and derision suffocated his soul. When would he be allowed to gasp for air? Unable to take the silence Garson had to speak.

"When the hell is someone gonna do things right around here?" He nearly shouted.

"Do what?" Mendez asked rather confused.

"I don't know. Just something… Something that would make a difference in this thing."

"At the rate things are going now. I don't think there's a thing anyone can do. For all I know they'll probably throw us a few shit missions here and there and makes us feel important."

"They're usin' us man!" Garson hammered. "That's all we're good for. And they'll never stop treating us like this 'til we die."

"Wish it wasn't so." Mendez managed. "But you ain't the only pawn on this ship. I'm a pawn, LT's a pawn … Even those marines are pawns. You ain't in this alone and you sure as hell ain't the only angry one either."

"It just angers me that we put our asses on the line while some fat asshole in DC stacks his cash. I tell you, wars are only fought to make money Mendez, all for the money."

"Well in case you forgot that's all war has ever been. All that stuff about freedom, defending interests, and just war is just a bunch of bullshit to get people on the bandwagon. Once you're on the bandwagon they got ya by the balls."

"Got all of us by the balls." Garson sighed, "Wish it wasn't so. But like they care anyway."

"They don't care. But hey that's just how life is."

---

Milloy received a very harrowing lesson on self-preservation yesterday. War, he learned, had a simple rule, kill or be killed. Regardless of how clichéd the phrase may have been, it was true. Taking the life of someone else, in order to save your own is the basic nature of combat. Though, in war the primal struggle to live is thought to apply only to soldiers. But, to define conflict on these terms, leaves many questions unanswered. Some of those questions pertain to the innocent. Do their deaths result in the preservation of other lives? Or, to put it more bluntly does the death of one innocent person prevent the death of another?

From what Milloy could remember, he hadn't seen or shot any civilians during those hectic moments. He really had no problem with killing another soldier. That was a given he could accept. Yet, the helpless plight of the innocent bothered him._ Christ Milloy, you're a SEAL, you're not suppose to give a damn._ SEALs were indifferent warriors. They were professional killers and in being professional they neither felt joy, nor anger, nor sorrow for the departed. Death was a part of war to these snake eaters, and if the innocent got caught in the middle, that was just too bad. It was not because they were inhuman. It was because they were bred for combat. They were trained to fight effectively and in order to do that they had to detach themselves from human emotion. And Milloy had to be reminded a few times, that that's how it worked. At times he accepted the facts and at other times he loathed them. Perfection had a price. If only he knew this before he became a SEAL. He hated having second thoughts.Speaking of second thoughts, Milloy was having a hard time, deciding on what to eat. There really wasn't much of a choice though. Only steak and French Fries and a sorry excuse for clam chowder were on the menu for today. Both selections were not terribly appealing, but Milloy took a bowl of chowder instead. _May not be New England, but I'm hungry as hell._

"Milloy!" A voice called out. "Over here!"

Recognizing the voice, Milloy gathered his tray and motioned towards one of the tables.

"Ahmed." Milloy grinned, "What kind of shit you get yourself into this time?"

"Nothing as bad as the shit you got on your tray." Ahmed countered, "The hell is that anyway?"

"Clam chowder." Milloy sighed.

"Aw man." Ahmed groaned. "They ran out of pig slop?" He asked sarcastically.

"Porky kept callin' the Navy. Said he was gonna shoot someone if he didn't get his food back." Milloy joked.

"Well tell Porky to shut the hell up." He laughed. "Else he's gonna end up being my breakfast."

"Don't even think they got bacon anymore."

"Not unless you consider the mush piles to be different."

"You mean use my imagination?"

"Yeah, use your imagination." Ahmed said with a sly grin.

"Sorry man." Milloy said wiping his mouth, "Don't think that's such a good idea."

"You mean like trying to be superman yesterday? Heard the choppers had to wait for you three."

"If only it weren't for such a prompt arrival." Milloy complained. "Overdue by ten minutes."

"Hey give the flyboys a break. They had to come all the way from Al-Suq, back to here, then to you guys."

"Shit." Milloy replied. "That's like seventy clicks all together."

"I know." Ahmed sighed. "But mission assignments and time tables are all screwed up."

"Who's in charge of the air tasking then?" He asked. "'Cause he sure as hell ain't doing a good job."

"Well you see, they got a replacement for the guy they originally had. Nervous ass wreck. Can't make a decision to save his life."

"What happened to him?"

"Who? The last guy?" Ahmed briefly swallowed some of his food. "Died in a crash."

"Marine?"

"Yessir. Died volunteering to fill in for a banged up Osprey driver. Heard some lucky son a bitch nails his helo with a Stinger. Killed a lot of people."

"Don't think I heard about it."

"Nobody really hears about the crashes. So many casualties in this war, and we start to lose count." Ahmed lamented looking down at his plate.

"Wait. Hold up. I think I do remember." Milloy suddenly realized. "Was it that helo that Lazzare was on?"

"Come to think if it, I think it was." Ahmed remembered. "Crazy that he survived."

"Sure is," Milloy agreed. "Especially if you hear how he explains how it all went down."

"Any injuries?"

"A sprained ankle and a sprained wrist." He chuckled in disbelief.

"Wasn't the wrist on his shootin' hand was it?"

"C'mon Ahmed. You know the guy's ambidextrous." Milloy guffawed.

Ahmed let out a brief roar of laughter. "His shootin' hand. Jeeze I crack myself up."

"You always had a way with words didn't ya?"

"Hey, just callin' it like I see it." Ahmed grinned.

"Wish I could see this war as clear as you see things."

"Don't we all?" The pilot asked rhetorically. "And you woulda thought that we learned to fight a war without casualties by now."

"Would be nice if it was like that. But doesn't look like this war thing's gonna change its attitude anytime soon."

"Well, I look at it like this. War's just a real messed up version of Frankenstein. Man created a monster that has managed to kill hundreds of millions throughout history. It goes with the saying, you reap what you sew."

"Humanity as a mad scientist?" Milloy mused. "Never quite looked at it that way before."

"Hey why not call us mad?" Ahmed beckoned. "Humanity commits genocide, they rape, they exploit, they murder, they kill. Need I say more?"

"Man does like to test things."

"Don't we? I mean, just look at the list. We got slavery, colonization, racism, and man's favorite habit, genocide. Man is always trying to find proof about how one of 'em is more superior compared to someone else."

"And it ain't too hard to see where war fits in to all of this. My Dad, an officer in Nam, always used to tell me, _y'know Jake, this whole war thing, ain't nuthin but ah pissin' contest. Just two guys comparin' dick sizes and makin' a God damned mess all over the place_."

"Don't mean to insult your pops. But I don't think that Plato ever said anything like that." Ahmed teased.

Milloy laughed, "Okay, okay. I know that. But for us here simple folks, makes a hell'uva lot of sense."

"Hey I'm not disagreeing with ya, buddy. Probably couldn't have said it any better myself."

"But." Milloy said standing up. "Does it always have to be that way?"

Ahmed looked up, "A part of me says yes and a part of me says no. But either way, there's not a damn thing we can do about it."

"No one asked me to like wars, I just fight 'em."

"And I'm just the toll man on the highway to hell."

Milloy laughed. "Whatever man. I'll see you later." He said walking away.

Ahmed Jaffer remained in the cafeteria finishing the last bit of his water. Being the first in his family to go to college, the son of Iranian immigrants, his steep climb to being an officer and helicopter pilot in the Navy taught him a lot about life. It taught him that it was cruel, indifferent, cold, and yet hopeful. To him, life contained both the dark and bright ends of the spectrum. He knew what it was like to be low and he knew what it was like to be happy. What he experienced in life was not the best of things. But, ironically, he felt blessed to have suffered for a time. Jaffer learned how precious life was and how hard it was too. The advice he could give, from hours reflecting on his past, was helpful to many. Some people joked that he was an angel that was just pretending to be a human. That was a great compliment, but Jaffer wasn't an angel. He was just someone who knew a lot about life. In a war as bad as this, having someone around like himself was a blessing to many, not just in the fact that he rescued marines now and then, but because he was just a good person.

---

A bullet is not prejudice. A bullet does not care. A bullet does not distinguish. Bullets only embark on a one-way journey into human flesh. They are violent by design, their intent, to kill. Bullets are blind and indiscriminate. These rapidly moving projectiles cannot tell the difference between a child, a mother, a father, a friend, or a soldier. All a bullet knows is targets, nothing more and nothing less.

Conceived from the squeeze of a trigger, a bullet enters the world through the barrel of a gun. Its lifespan is short, lasting only a few moments. As a bullet dies, someone usually dies alongside it. Bullets are not living creatures and are not meant to be loved. Their only purpose is to be used and despised. And for a man like Michiko using bullets was all he ever did.

Three targets were positioned on the absolute aft of the ship. Michiko lay prone near the opposite end of the ship. Looking into the rangefinder he noted that the targets were 600 feet away. Most people would have told him to use the metric system. But Michiko liked to do things his way.

Using his rucksack to anchor his rifle, Michiko slightly shifted his position until he felt steady and comfortable. Tucking the stock of the rifle into the soft skin between his right shoulder and right arm he looked into the scope and began focusing on one of the targets. As he was trained, he automatically began to perfect his breathing. Inhaling deeply he took in all the air he could hold, subsequently pushing all the air out of his lungs. Michiko did this three more times until the rifle rose up and down in a rhythmic manner. Satisfied with the fact that he could predict the rise and fall of the rifle, he began to focus on the targets once more.

Michiko was now one with his rifle. It moved with his breathing. All he had to do now was time his shot correctly. _One shot, one kill_, he reminded himself. This certainly wasn't combat, but he treated it like it was. If he were to miss in combat, he would be a dead man, or in the current situation, a real frustrated one. Carefully he moved his rifle until the center of the crosshairs was aimed slightly down and left of the target's head, to compensate for range, wind, and the expected recoil.

Patiently he waited for the perfect moment. _Focus on inhale, fire on exhale_. The breathing process continued for only a couple of more seconds. On the beginning of the third exhale he squeezed the trigger, seeing the giant piece of fruit splatter a quarter of a second later. _Good… Bye_.

"I don't know whether to feel sorry for the bullet or the watermelon." He heard a voice say.

Michiko looked up. "I've kinda had it out for watermelon, sir." He squinted with a grin. "Always used to make me throw up."

"That's fair." Dillon replied. "So heard you saw a lot yesterday."

"Sure did." Michiko stood up. "Just wish we coulda done something y'know?"

"So do I. But even us SEALs got our limits, sailor. Don't think taking out a bunch of tanks without support is the smartest thing to do."

"Too bad the stooges didn't hear that. You heard what they did right?" Michiko asked.

Dillon chuckled. "Sure did. Nearly got themselves killed. But they took out three of those monsters."

"Bet those marines are more than grateful. 'Cause I sure as hell would be."

"You can count on that. Heard some of them still talking about it."

"So how was your adventure yesterday?" Michiko wanted to know.

"Took a crazy trip with a few marines. Got shot at until a pilot, who I owe a beer still, picked us up."

"What you guys do that was so bad?"

"Well, the guys I was with were telling me about these hit and runs as they liked to call 'em, which is basically taking a single vehicle, and driving into the shittiest part of the battlefield, picking up stragglers caught in the damn mess, and then leave the area like a bat out of hell."

"Pick anyone up?"

"Hell no!" Dillon laughed. "As soon as we reached Sana'A our friends were just pushing in. Took some heavy fire for a few minutes, until an overhead helo spotted our lone humvee and decided to pick us up."

"That was nice of him." Michiko smirked.

"Her." Dillon corrected. "Best damn pilot I've met yet. Well, second to Ahmed."

"Lucky a hardcore feminist didn't hear that."

Dillon coughed at the sudden humor, "Jesus." He laughed.

"And damn, sir. Don't ya got an ole lady back at home? That's just sad." Michiko kidded.

"Slip of the tongue, sailor." The lieutenant tried to counter.

Dillon took a moment to pause, observing the setting of a bright orange sun. Gray clouds mysteriously masked the heavenly body, a metaphor for the pain and regret he hid deep within his soul. Recurring memories of past wrongs suddenly sank the beauty of the natural world around him. As in all moments of quiet, his mind began to fall once more into the endless abyss of despair and regret. His mind began to recreate the horrible visions of past arguments, broken promises, and plenty of tears. No one would have believed that the most hardened of warriors cried, but Dillon did. But he did not cry on the surface. His tears were internal, the outlet of frustration from a raging soul. Letting others know of his continuously festering failure, as a husband, was not an option. Something told him that he should tell someone of his problems, but the pshrinks on this ship were booked enough as it was. Even if Dillon had the chance to see a psychiatrist, he would have never done so. He never did when his wife asked him to, so why should he have here? Divorce rates were high among this elite group of sailors. A considerable number of Dillon's comrades had traveled down that road, their wives claming infidelity as the cause for separation. Life was very cruel, but only if you made it that way. Being in the Navy, while being married, from what Dillon could gather, could have probably been one of the worst mistakes of his life. The thought of divorce had crossed his mind as it had certainly crossed his wife's. And there was a reason for Dillon's consideration of a divorce. He knew he was hurting his wife by breaking his promises to retire from the Navy. Maybe divorcing her would make things better, for the both of them. _But no_, he remembered. Adding children to the equation of a shaky marriage, complicated matters even further. Dillon was a man whose father walked out on him and his mother at an early age. Not wanting to be anything like that man, Dillon vowed to be active in the life of his, no, their child. No doubt did Dillon and his wife still love each other. Under the strain of broken promises and a drawn out war, the future of this already fragile marriage was left floating in a sea of unknown.

Meanwhile, Michiko let his mind ponder on something that had been on his mind lately. He would occasionally wonder about the type of man he could have been if only he had parents that would have actually acted like parents. Would he be as cold as he was, would he have ever been the killer that he was? For a man that had a mother addicted to sleeping pills and a drowning alcoholic as a father, Michiko never had the chance to receive the priceless familial advice treasured by so many children of loving parents. Initially his parents were real loving, celebrating a few birthdays, and a few excursions to summer carnivals. But then things started to spiral out of control relatively early into Michiko's childhood. At the time, Michiko had no idea why his father suddenly turned to alcohol and began beating his mother. Children never concern themselves with the reasons behind such blatant digression and violence. As time wore on however, it became clear why his father had turned into the man that he did. He learned from his constantly crying mother that his father had lost control of his auto body business. In anger and disgust his father tried to find solace in the bottle, a poison that Michiko detested with every once of blood in his veins. Alcoholics were absolute failures in his mind. His dislike for alcoholics was so bad he mercilessly beat up a drunk that said something about him, earning the young sailor a light assault charge. But Michiko felt the price was worth it, considering that he wasn't drunk and the one getting his ass kicked.

Michiko's mother, tried to hold on for as long as she could. Before giving up, she and Michiko were the one's bringing income into the household. But the combination of an unemployed, violent, alcoholic husband and a stressful job did not mix with her too well. Confliction described how Michiko thought of his mother. On one hand the downfall towards addiction was not her fault. The conditions she had to endure were the kind that no woman should have had to put up with. She needed a way out. But Michiko also felt angry. He could not understand why his mother continuously insisted on staying with an abusive husband. Could she have not done what other responsible mothers would have done and just leave? His mother was not a real courageous woman and for that reason he never forgave her. Even though her husband brought about her downward spiral, Michiko believed she should have done a better job at raising her son.

"I'm gonna get some grub." Michiko broke the silence.

"Good idea." _Anything to get my mind off divore._ Dillon didn't say. "Besides, I need to repay the pilot that rescued me the other day.

"Should make up for that sexist comment of yours." Michiko teased, motioning towards the lower decks.

Dillon laughed as he followed Michiko. "Yeah. Maybe it will."

---

Delaney learned one thing about being a corpsman. _Bullets can kill, but so does the paper work_. Bureaucracy was like an immortal being that had not quite learned to die and all this paper work served to reiterate that realization. _Don't they already know who died_, he wondered. Staring at the yellow form in front of him he paused when it asked for the victim's name. When trying to save a man's life, a doctor has no time to search for a dog tag. "God damn." He fumed, realizing he would have to seek out the team leader, if he was even alive, or if not him, whoever the hell else was next on the chain of command. _How the hell am I suppose to know who the guy is and where do I find him?_ Not interested in frustrating himself any longer, the corpsman sighed moving on to the next section of the form. Whoever the guy was, Delaney would find him later.

Things were only getting more irritating. The next section asked him to describe, in detail, the procedures used to try and resuscitate the individual._ He is a dead man for Christ's sake. What the hell does it matter? Its not like we don't know what killed him_. Delaney clicked his pen rapidly in an attempt to stem off some of the building irritation. He tried to write a word but was unable to put anything down. His mind and body were thoroughly exhausted from just having tried to save twenty men, thirteen of which had died. Getting this whole process done was going to take a while.In peacetime, Delaney would have been doing none of this. Even if he had to fill out just one form, the stress he levels pressed upon him then would be nowhere near as high as they were now. But Delaney was not going to waste his time coming up with a uniquely different report for each individual that died. He could explain his way out of the generic responses he gave, if anyone asked of course._ Who scrutinizes these damned things in the first place?_ BUD/S never prepared him for this kind of work. Well, maybe it did. Most of BUD/S training was a mental experience, not a physical one. Did filing out medical reports count as a mental exercise? From the looks of it, Delaney believed it damn well did.

Death was just one of those things that was never meant to be scrutinized. Except for cases of murder or something along the lines of heart failure. Such exceptions were fair since it was natural for a family to find out exactly how their loved ones died. But in war, things are a little different. Usually, if not always, the cause of death on the battlefield was from a bullet. There was not really much to analyze. Whether you died from a shot to the head or were wounded in the chest, you were dead either way. Those shot in the head where the lucky ones. At least their deaths were quick and painless.

In the end, did all this writing have any real use? The families would never get the medical report. And even if they did, what parent would frame a document stating, _cause of death from severe hemorrhaging of cranial matter, aggravated from contusion of a bullet wound to the head_. Receiving a simple, _we regret to inform you_ letter along with arrangements for a military funeral was more than enough to bear. Why worsen the burden with gruesome details? They weren't going to raise the dead.

So why was he writing? Because it was the way this whole process worked. You watch a man die and write up a report about the departure of his soul. How Delaney was supposed to do that, he had no idea. The soul was not a tangible object and to try and explain why it left a dead body was rather crazy to Delaney. Well, he could say, _because so and so died_. But that was much too simple an explanation for those people who read these reports. Thoroughness was what they asked for, not simplicity. That would have been possible, but watching a man a die stays with you. A doctor just wants to forget about death, especially when some dies at their care. Why torture one with the memories of a life they could not save? It made no sense to Delaney. A dead man was a dead man and that was that.

Who where the people that actually sat down to read these things?_ Probably some office puke, state side who just skims over the documents, and places 'em amongst thousands of other medical documents never to be looked at again_. Sometimes Delaney wished he wasn't a corpsman. If that were the case then all he would have to worry about was killing people, and killing people was always much easier than saving them. _Live and let die?_ But that wouldn't be nice of him. Saving lives was a good thing. _Yeah_, Delaney sighed, _minus the paperwork_.

---

Sometimes a man just needs a quiet place to sit and think such as a peaceful garden or a calm lonely beach. However large the Iwo Jima was, it had no room for such appealing amenities. To make up for the lack of accommodations, many of the ship's occupants retreated to the quiet recesses of the restrooms to contemplate life's burning questions or to simply relieve themselves.

Lazzare could remember his mother telling him to not let his eyes get bigger than his stomach. If only he recalled those words when he decided to eat two bowls of salad, two servings of scalloped potatoes and a half-pound hamburger. He knew a meal such as this was the kind his that his BUD/S instructors would have frowned upon. But after walking twenty miles on a sprained ankle, indulgence didn't seem like such a bad idea. In retrospect though, Lazzare wished he exercised a little more discipline in his diet. His stomach certainly would have appreciated it.

Meanwhile, Kaufman was on his way to the bathroom to finish up a novel he'd been reading. The library would have been a nice place to do that. But reading in there was not as comfortable as reading in the bathroom. Kaufman really didn't think about it. After all, it was just a matter of habit.

"Lazzare, buddy. How goes it?" Kaufman asked sitting down in the stall next to Lazzare.

"A O K." Lazzare grunted. "How'd you know it was me?"

"After seeing you run out of the armory that fast. I'd figured I'd find ya in here."

"Nice of you to drop in."

"No problem. Besides gets kinda lonely in these places y'know." Kaufman jokingly advised.

"Glad to have a friend that's so concerned." Lazzare chided.

"Not really. Just came in here to finish reading this book." Kaufman joked.

"Y'know you actually had me going there." Trying to sound disappointed.

"What? You want me to give a hug?"

"No thanks. I'll decline." Lazzare smirked.

"Well damn." Suddenly acting appalled. "You're no fun."

"And neither was that helo crash."

"Ouch. Heard that was one hell'uva roller coaster ride. Think I should try it sometime."

"Yeah." Lazzare took a pause. "If you want to end up on the other side of hell that is."

"Um, yeah, hell doesn't seem so fun." Kaufman admitted. "So how's that ankle of yours?"

"I can still walk, if that's what you mean."

"Well that was kinda a dumb question. I mean you did practically run to the bathroom."

"Guess I did didn't I?" Lazzare agreed. "So how'd it feel to blow stuff up again?"

"Like celebrating the fourth of July, 'cept without the grill and a few Bud Lites."

"That fun, huh?"

"Yeah, especially when they started shootin' at us!"

"You guys didn't go into that city did you?" Lazzare asked unbelievably.

"Y'know, intel is a sometimey kinda bitch ain't she?"

Both men laughed. "That she is. Guess you boys woulda found another way if intel was right this time."

"Hell yes, buddy." Kaufman managed enthusiastically. "We got lucky. Guys shot at us from every corner, rooftop, you name it. Even a Saudi Bradley chased us a bit. All this crazy shit. Barely made it to the university."

"Makes us even then?"

"I sure as hell think so."

Not that they were in any real competition. These men fought for a living. If they got shot at, they got shot at. If they got wounded, they got wounded. And if they died, well, they died too. But death was something the two of them never spent much time dwelling on. Combat was scary enough, and compounding those fears with thoughts of death just made their lives difficult. Why do things the hard way when you can avoid them?

"Anymore helo rides for ya?" Kaufman asked.

"Don't think I have much of a choice do I? We are at war in case you forgot and that means doing what has to be done, whether we like it or not."

"Too the point. I'm impressed." Kaufman chuckled. "But humor aside, doesn't really look like there's really a way outta here. Anytime soon that is."

"The toilet seat or the war?" Lazzare kidded.

"Well now that you mentioned it, I think I'm glued to the seat." The demolitions expert laughed.

"But a ring around your ass ain't as bad as this war man."

"As least the ring on your ass fades. This war thing on the other hand doesn't quite go away so easily."

"Kinda stays with you. And after a while you stay in it so long you lose sight of who you are. We are trained killers, I know that. But sometimes you just feel your soul dying. Not really a physical feeling, its something different. It's that feeling we have when we squeeze a trigger or watch a man die. Nothing. Our feelings are simply a lack thereof. Can't really describe how a soul dies. But I think you feel it dying when you don't feel anything."

"They surely don't pay us to be human. We're trained killers. That's all we are and you know this as well as I do. No one expects us to care and I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but people would probably just laugh in your face for saying something like that."

"But you can't say this conflict hasn't gotten to you. We've all seen how bad it is out there and have had to be in the middle of it many times before. Our minds are gonna to want to say something about all the crazy shit our eyes have seen. Maybe not when the bullets are flying past our heads, but instead during the quiet moments such as sitting on the crapper."

Kaufman laughed lightheartedly, "I agree with you on that. And I will say that it is only natural for our minds to question what we do. I was never too big on philosophy, but we are the lesser of two evils. Look at it like this man. They can either send in a whole damn battalion of troops to destroy a base and kill anything that stands on two feet. Or they could send in eight men. Kill only a few people, and destroy what needs to be destroyed. The likelihood of casualties are reduced and many more people live to tuck their children in or kiss their wives good night."

"Still, that's not what we're really doing out here. I mean, sure we've done some surgical attacks here and there. But most of the time we end up being jumbled in the fray with everyone else shooting anyone who comes at us."

"Question is, do we actually hit anybody? We shoot but you know the routine. Suppress the enemy, keep their heads down. Doesn't mean you actually kill anybody. They pop up like gophers, take a couple of potshots and likewise, we return the favor. It goes on like this all day until either of us runs out of ammo or realizes we can't win that particular battle and decides to turn in for the night. The summary of war for ya."

"Well, maybe we aren't mowing down the masses. It's probably a combination of constantly firing your weapon and seeing both friendlies and enemies drop dead all around ya. Seeing that over and over again gets on your damn nerves, well mines at least."

"Shit happens man, and if some guy dies, that's too bad. You can pray for his soul if that's the kind of person you are. But for me, it's kinda hard to mourn for somebody I don't even know. Especially when you still have bullets moving by like a plague of locusts. Some things are just beyond our control. We all have to ignore our conscience every now and then."

"I guess." Lazzare replied dejectedly.

"C'mon buddy. We're not rapists, we're not racists, we're not child molesters, we're not serial killers. I could go on and on. There are plenty of ugly fuckers on this lonely rock that do unspeakable things. We kill and see hell like seven year olds watch Saturday morning cartoons. But are we monsters like the people I just mentioned? Last time I checked, nope. So lighten up on yourself and just be lucky that killing a few enemy soldiers is all we do. There's a reason why some people call us heroes."

"Why, because we kill people?"

"Could be. And I'd debate that topic with ya too. But my ass is getting kinda sore from sitting on this seat. I'm gonna get outta here and I'd advise you to do the same. Lest you wanna take that toilet seat with you."

"I'll take you up on that."

And with the flush of a toilet both men got rid of some bodily clutter and some very complicated thoughts.


	4. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Blessings or Burdens

The only thing he could think of when looking at the helicopter was a face littered with acne. Just like zits, the aircraft's body was riddled with bullet holes. Jaffer just stared at the metallic bird for a few minutes wondering how in the hell he managed to get it back to the Iwo Jima in one piece. He recalled from his days as a trainee that the SH-60 Seahawk was a delicate vehicle that was not meant to be put under extreme amounts of stress. Of course it was capable of flying in all weather. _A hail of bullets though? Probably not_. Jaffer may not have been a weather expert, but he sure as hell knew that a storm of bullets was not a meteorological term.

He walked around the battered helicopter to inspect some of the damage up close. The first place he checked was the glass surrounding the cockpit. If someone really wanted to kill him they would have concentrated the majority of their firepower right here. He exhaled deeply when he noticed a few holes in the glass near the rudder pedals. _What's worse? Getting shot in the head and dying? Or having a bullet come from below and wipe out your chances of having kids?_ Thinking about such things caused him to shudder a bit. Neither of the results would have been favorable. But fortunately for him, things had gone for the better.

Next stop was the right center of aircraft. Jaffer smirked in disbelief when he realized the glass on the door window was completely gone. Sticking his head in the open hole he looked down at the helicopter floor to see shards of glass scattered about. _Didn't even hear the wind rushing by. Probably because I had my helmet on_. Jaffer then moved to take a look at the tail portion of the helicopter. A path of bullets ran the whole length of it stopping just short of the rear rotor. Upon seeing this it suddenly occurred to him why the fuel ran low so quickly. While in the air he thought he was imagining things. But after looking at the damaged tail boom in became obvious that he wasn't.

"Chewed up pretty bad ain't she?" A voice asked.

"Miracle I brought her home to papa."

"Well you shoulda had her home by curfew. You know I should kick your ass for that Ahmed." The jovial mechanic joked, wiping grease off his hands.

Jaffer laughed. "Won't happen again Sarge." Imitating fear.

"You sure are right though. It's a miracle you got it back here. We've been losing a few birds due to small arms fire lately. Sorta like that Iraqi farmer that brought down an Apache with an AK a good number of years ago."

"The bastard had a lucky shot."

"And that lucky shot brought down millions of dollars worth of taxpayer's money. Whoever the hell said you need a missile to bring one of those things down?" The marine pointed out.

"How the Ospreys doing after yesterday?" Jaffer asked.

"They're doing alright. Got a little roughed up on that university evac, but they can stand for a couple more hops."

"What's up with the flight crews?"

"Got banged up too. As you already know we lost a pilot and a few marines in one crash. Heard one of those SEALs survived and kept the survivors together. But other than that one death, some guys suffered from flesh rounds from ricochets. Other than that, that's about it."

"So you think go ole Oh-Thirteen can still fly within the next twelve hours?" Jaffer hoped he would get a favorable answer.

"I don't think so Ahmed, lest you want to only get two seconds of fuel and a shaky rotor blade. Oh-Thirteen's gonna be on punishment for a while." The mechanic answered, dousing Jaffer's hopes.

"It was my fault she didn't get home in time." Jaffer joked.

"Hey, these helos are like my kids, Ahmed. You gotta given 'em some tough love just to show 'em who's boss."

"Well other than my bird not being ready, how's this war got you mechanics fairing?"

"We're understaffed, lacking spare parts, and having to work a schedule that the good Lord himself couldn't even follow. Shoot, things are so bad, I've heard some of the brass talking about bringing in some mechanics from Sikorsky and Bell down here just to lift some of this weight off our shoulders."

"But you guys were doing pretty decent up until today weren't ya?"

"Yeah." The mechanic sighed. "We were, but that massive evac was liking puttin' buckshot through a bunch of pigeons. Some of 'em ain't make it and a few limped back to their nests. So that means I won't have any info about a new SH-60 anytime soon. Seems like you Navy boys are overworking the damn things. You'll probably have to borrow one of those Hueys for the interim."

"Hey don't worry about it. Got a couple hundred hours with the old birds."

"They teach you Navy flyboys to fly our stuff?" The mechanic was surprised.

"Sure do Sarge. Just happened kinda recently though. Someone thought we needed some new hands on experience."

"I see." The tech sergeant first class mused. "Well, works for us. At least we don't have to trip over ourselves to get your aircraft in shape. Besides those things are a bitch to fix, whereas on the other hand with a Huey you can use duct tape to put some things together. We got some cool tricks up our sleeves down here." He smiled.

"And I…" A loud clanging noise interrupted him.

"GOD DAMMIT! SON OF A BITCH!" A marine yelled in the background.

Both looked to see who it was. "Yeah, looks like one of my guys is getting' kinda frustrated. Love to stay and chat my man, but duty calls." The mechanic ran off.

Jaffer tapped the wounded Seahawk. "Looks like we'll be separated for a while baby. I'll be back eventually."

_But why the Huey?_ Things already looked like they were getting worse. To begin with, he did not like having to fly the UH-1Y. Flight hours with the aircraft were in abundance. But he hadn't really learned to trust the Huey as a helicopter. Sure it was a roughneck of a bird that could handle a lot. That was a good quality, but other than that, Jaffer believed that was all the aging bird really had to offer. The Huey after all, had just barely missed the Korean War by only a few years. Amazing that the old fart could still hump it into the wild blue yonder.

Jaffer still had to remember that Huey got the job done for the Corps. So if it worked for them it couldn't be as bad as he was making it out to be, right? The Marines had obviously kept it in service for good reason, even though it had undergone more cosmetic adjustments than a really vain movie star. There was an adage that said why fix what's not broken. But Jaffer also believed in burying what was dead. No point in keeping something around that was considered rather antique. As far as he was concerned, the Marines should have bought a flight of Seahawks, or whatever the hell the marine variant of the UH-60 would have been called. The SH-60 was simply the Navy variant of the Army's famed UH-60 Blackhawk. _The CH-60 Jarhawk,_ Jaffer wondered with a smirk.

At least he wasn't blaming the mechanics. They were doing the best they could. Trying to make sure that guys like him were in the air was their top priority. These mechanics truly bent over backwards to support the pilots. Most pilots had a working and friendly relationship with the aircraft mechanics. Those few that didn't usually did not have an aircraft to fly for a while. That was one of the reasons why Jaffer would always come down here to talk to the mechanics. He not only wanted to be on their good side but also wanted them to know that he truly appreciated what they were doing. The stresses of war were taking a toll on everyone, even Jaffer. But regardless of how straining a burden combat was Jaffer was not going to lose touch with the person he was.

---

Once again the stooges were back together. Milloy was lying on his bunk reading a lengthy magazine article while Garson and Mendez were playing a game of war. The small room had a few bunks lined against the blue walls with a hold door towards the front of the room. Light emanated from a fading fluorescent bulb on the ceiling, flickering from time and humming consistently. A single wooden table graced the center of the room, which was where Mendez and Garson played their card game. Every so often the table would rock and squeak whenever one of them moved their arms. It was a bit unnerving but the sailors continued their game without much complaint.

None of them really gave it much thought, but it was quite ironic to be playing a game of war, in light of the present circumstances. Irony was not something that Garson or Mendez usually dwelt upon. They just looked at their card game as nothing more than a friendly competition between two good friends. No matter how the two of them looked at their little game, there truly was a deeper meaning to this idea of a competition between friends, exactly what Milloy's mind had begun to ponder.

The article Milloy was reading expressed a political analyst's thoughts on how the current conflict could have been avoided. A few sentences Milloy didn't agree with but most of them he did. One particular paragraph speaking about political current stood out and got him thinking._ A card game is nothing more than a friendly competition between two or more parties and so is politics._ But politics on the other hand was a dirty competition between two or more nations. This was exactly the type of game that the United States and Saudi Arabia engaged in. _We buy your oil and you let us have a base_. That was basically the whole exchange. There was more of course to this exchange, such as strategic importance and providing a balance of power in the region. _Really?_ If that were the case then why had this war started.

In 1991, the United States and the Saudi Arabia were the closest of political allies. The United States wanted to defend the world's largest and one of richest Arab nation from tyrannical aggression, whereas Saudi Arabia simply wanted to keep their country's primary energy source to all its citizens. Nothing was wrong with these interests right? Milloy did not look at the Gulf War that way. The only reason the United States intervened was to make sure they would be one of the heirs of Saudi oil. If the Iraqis succeeded in invading Kuwait, they would eventually get the audacity move in to Saudi Arabia thus controlling the oil. To allow that to happen was the worst nightmare of every American politician with ties to oil. Iraq would become an oil giant that the United States would have to import from. The Saudis were fair, most of the time. Iraq would not have been fair at all and the United States just wouldn't tolerate it. As a result of victory the United States and the Saudi Kingdom were both happy. But even in supposed friendship, the two nations were still playing a dirty game.

The fallout, Milloy believed, began after September 11th. This dirty game the two nations had been playing was just starting to get nasty. While the Saudi government may or may not have been connected with the attacks, the United States still needed Saudi oil. American politicians, behind closed doors he imagined, gave the Saudis very stiff warnings. On television though Saudi Arabia was being praised as a major ally in this war on terror, a term that Milloy had come to loath. But the mere fact that the United States would talk down to one of its largest oil suppliers did not sit well with the Saudis. Regardless of how they felt the Arab nation continued to allow Americans to operate bases within its country and buy their oil.

Then Milloy remembered the war in Iraq and how crazy that was. Saudi Arabia, not forgetting about the harsh words from the United States, was being pushed closer to the edge. Ousting Saddam Hussein and reconstituting Iraq was viewed as a threat by the Arab nation. From their point of view, the United States would simply abandon them and turn most of their attention to the newly formed free and democratic Iraqi nation.

As he saw it, the United States was simply trying to expand its choices in oil. Being able to purchase both Saudi and Iraqi oil was a major bonus for the United States. It was kind of sickening that American soldiers had to pay with their lives just to make such choices a reality. But what did politicians care? Just so long as they could regulate the flow of oil, everything was fine. Unfortunately, no one bothered to check on how the Saudis felt about the new American oil policy.

Not every politician, however, was oblivious to the feelings of the Kingdom. Sensing the negative change in Saudi Arabia's attitude towards the United States, several high profile officials advised the President to sell arms and technology to the Arab nation, in order to mend a faltering relationship. Subsequently, the Saudis received some of the best military equipment the United States had to offer. All the gifts the Saudis received were explained away as a means of maintaining _a functional mutual relationship of regional stability_. Who would have questioned such words? Iran was rattling its saber and Saudi Arabia's new acquisition of arms was viewed as way of making sure the Iranian military stayed in its place.

A famous proverb reads that all good things must come to an end. Such words clearly defined status of the American and Saudi political relationship. Coming out of nowhere, the United States announced that it was no longer going to rely on Arab oil. Russian oil was now the hottest commodity, the newest and most abundant natural resource around. Not only was the Russian oil new, it was cheap, much cheaper than the barrels that Arab oil companies put out. This seemed like great opportunity to please the American public and help out the Russian economy at the same time. Only problem was, the Saudis didn't see it this way.

Outraged by the fact that the United States was no longer buying its oil, the Kingdom requested that all American military personnel leave the country within a year. Reluctantly, the United States complied and removed its forces from the majority of the Arabian Peninsula once and for all. The drastic move had no affect in the way of destabilizing the region, but it did shatter the once working political relationship between the two nations. No one thought that things could have gotten any worse. All it took was a bullet to prove them wrong.

When the Saudi King was assassinated, Milloy had just barely graduated from BUD/S. He remembered the gentleman who stepped in to fill the power vacuum. His name was Amir Said, a charismatic and clever Saudi general, extremely popular amongst the troops. Upon hearing that name, Milloy knew that sooner or later he would be a part of something very big. He just wondered if his friends felt the same way.

"Say fellas." Milloy said. "You all remember how this whole thing started?"

"Yeah." Garson answered first. "Started with that corny name change." Not looking away from his cards.

"Central Arab Republic right?" Mendez guessed.

"Correct for five hundred buddy." Milloy complimented.

"Said's good ole boys. The CAR, or the vehicle, as some of the marines have started calling it."

"Wonder why they call it that?" Milloy asked.

"Because, like a car, it runs over whoever the hell's standing in the way."

"Nice description amigo. Too bad it doesn't help you at playing war." Mendez patted Garson on the back.

"Whatever man. I'm done anyway." Tossing his cards across the table. "That article talking about the war?" He asked Milloy.

"Yup." Replying as he sat up. "And how we coulda stopped the damn thing."

"Well if you ask me, we should've marched right into Riyadh when he started making all those speeches and posted up a bunch of wanted posters." Mendez suggested.

"And I'd guess you'd be the sheriff to take him in?" Garson assumed.

"Just give me a badge and a six shooter and I'd be set."

"Don't forget the spurs and the twelve gallon hat." Milloy had to add.

"Then we'd have another John Wayne on our hands." Garson groaned.

"Sorry Garson, you got it all wrong man. I was thinking more along the lines of Clint Eastwood, you know from The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly. John Wayne was a wuss."

"I think he did a good job in Green Berets." Milloy tried to counter.

"Milloy, c'mon buddy. The guy was damn near sixty when he did that movie. The old fart probably needed a full bottle of water after every take. And you wanna know why he always used those cheesy one liners. Because he was always out of breath." Mendez, giving his opinion.

They all laughed.

"Okay, okay. Don't crucify me." Milloy jokingly apologized. "The guy was an old fart that couldn't act. But you gotta admit that our General friend is a hell'uva character."

"That he is." Garson nodded.

"Plays his role well and so do his troops."

"Not to mention forcing everyone to watch." Milloy added.

"Like Syria, Jordan, Azerbaijan, Armenia, Oman, Iraq. Practically took over the whole damn region."

"And only a matter of time before they grow the balls to take on Iran." Mendez warned.

"That'll be one hell'uva fight." Garson predicted.

"You guys ever wonder how things would have turned if we intervened in the beginning?" Mendez changed the subject.

"Well the Russians tried in Armenia and Azerbaijan. Remember what happened?. Got their shit handed to 'em." Garson reminded everyone.

"Wasn't too smart was it?

"I remembering hearing some talk of the Ruskies wanting to shove some nukes down their throats. And that was just to save face after getting' their asses kicked." Mendez recalled.

"Stopped just short of doing it when we threatened to dissolve our oil partnership with them."

"Shows you how powerful the money is nowadays." Garson was right.

"Money makes the world go 'round." Mendez added.

"And it would be really satisfying to knock out the son of a bitch who got us into this mess."

"Wasn't the joint chiefs, I can say that for sure. Hell, they advised against it."

"But war is something that the folks back home'll never understand." Milloy thought out loud. "Wanna beat someone up Garson. Just find one of those money hungry bastards."

"Oh you mean politicians." Garson chuckled.

"Yeah, that's it."

"But the war was a nightmare. I never expected us to be down by this much." Mendez admitted.

"Kinda like being on forth and goal on the one yard line, in the fourth quarter, with a second left on the clock, down by nine. You score a touchdown, but in the end you still lose." Milloy noted.

"And lose we did. They had our number from the very beginning. All that equipment we gave 'em came back to bite us in the ass. Those tanks, fast movers, and don't even get me started on that Peace Shield thing." Garson's voice trailed.

"Yup, we shoulda never let 'em have our Peace Shield. Made our lives a living hell. Put cruise missiles out of commission, could detect our stealth aircraft, and defeat just about any weapon we could throw at 'em, ruling out much needed close air support." Milloy explained.

"And our Army didn't even stand a chance. I mean they put close air support out of the picture. Our boys were just sitting ducks."

"Left us here sailors and marines to try and fix things up." Garson pointed out.

"So what now then? We go home?" Mendez asked.

"Who knows?" Milloy said. "All I know is that I sure as hell don't feel like going back there."

"I think you speak for all of us my man."

---

True to his duty as a doctor, Delaney followed up with one of the marines he saved a few days ago. Even though this was a doctor's responsibility, Delaney took it upon himself to check on this one. He always felt that one who saves the life of another human being is always responsible for their recovery. That may have been a heavy burden to carry, but Delaney believed that there was more to being a lifesaver than being professional. He believed that being a lifesaver required you to bend over backwards to save a person's life. Saving a life was not only about diagnosing a problem. It is about giving someone a second chance. To give someone a second chance was all Delaney could ask for. Even though he was trained to take a life away, when he had the opportunity to save one, he always took it in stride. This patient was an extremely fortunate case. Involved in a vicious firefight the marine was heavily wounded by grenade shrapnel. By fate, his teammates managed to drag him to safety under heavy fire. Arriving back on the Iwo Jima, Delaney was faced with a decision that no medical professional wishes to make. But in order to save the man's life, he had to take something away from him, something that would change the marine's life, forever.

The effects of the anesthetics were just beginning to wear off. Over the course of the last few days the marine had been drifting in and out of consciousness. So much blood had been lost forcing the medical staff to keep their patient in a stasis for a prolonged period of time. Putting the patient in a state of stasis would allow him to regain the much of the blood he had lost.

Delaney stood at the marine's bedside waiting for him to come out of the state of rest. He hoped the heavy amount of anesthetics had not affected his brain chemistry. Any chance of brain damage was highly unlikely. But to be sure of this, Delaney would ask the young marine a serious of routine questions to verify that his mind was functioning clearly.

Waiting may have been easy for Delaney but it was becoming difficult for the marine's comrades standing amongst him. Watching one of their close friends suffer a devastating wound was unsettling in more ways than one. They were quiet and anxious, unsure of how their squad mate would react when he understood what exactly had happened to him. All hoped that he would be able to accept his new life fairly easy. That new life was going to be difficult to accept, but as always these marines would remain faithful to their comrade through pain and hardship.

Moods became suddenly tense when the marine's eyes started fluttering. But Delaney calmed the fears when he told everyone that this was how a patient coming out of stasis usually reacts. _Time to get to work_.

"Wha… Whe… Am… Wha…t happ… end?" The marine asked quite groggily.

Delaney tried to manage a humorous answer. "Well, it ain't exactly heaven. But it ain't hell either."

Still too out too tired to comprehend humor, the marine remained persistent in getting his first question answered. Delaney however ignored his demands instead wanting to see if there was any brain damage.

"What is your name, marine?" Knowing well that his name was Private Jeremy Croix.

Hesitating briefly. "Croix." The marine struggled.

_Fair enough_. "Private Croix, listen to me carefully." Delaney instructed. "You suffered a few wounds yesterday. Do you remember how you got them?" That would be a very difficult question for this marine to answer, mainly due to the fact that he couldn't overcome Mother Nature. As a defense, the brain is programmed to momentarily forget specifically traumatic moments. The natural mechanism prevents a dramatic shock from occurring and allows the mind to gradually come to grips with any number of terrifying experiences.

"I… I… Remember that my legs caught on fire. Don't know how… though." Such the response was common with trauma victims. The mind had a habit of reinterpreting events after period of shock. But the marine's account of how he felt was not that far off the mark. Delaney knew that people who suffered shrapnel wounds usually associated them with a burning sensation. A leg on fire could not have been closer to the truth.

"You'll be relieved to know that your leg was not on fire."_ Sorry. Something much worse kid_.

"You sure doc? 'Cause my legs are feeling kinda weird."

"A sort of tingling right?" Knowing he would have to soon deliver the horrible news.

"Yeah." More awake this time. "Any idea why?'

_Here it goes_. "Private Croix, both of your legs took some heavy shrapnel a few days ago. You were lucky that your friends were around to drag ya outta there. Your wounds caused you to lose a lot of blood, which is why we kept you under for a few days. We wanted to give you some time to rest and recover. Now, that tingly feeling in your legs is the residual effect of the shrapnel, most of which we were able to remove in surgery. That's the good news."

A concerned look ran across his face. "Whadaya mean that's the good news? Are my buddies alright? Did they make it?"

Delaney let out a heavy sigh. "They're fine Private Croix. As a matter of fact they're right here." He motioned for them to come forward. They all looked at Croix with melancholic grins. The young marine knew something was wrong. "I mentioned that you lost a lot of blood due to the shrapnel. In surgery we noticed that your right calve was severely damaged, almost severed to the bone. Several blood vessels were ruptured as well along with a heavy amount of scare tissue covering the skin. Your right thigh and your left leg are gonna be fine. Your right calve, I'm sorry to say, had to be amputated."_ Had to do it_ he didn't say.

Delaney stopped speaking to allow Private Croix to digest the information. His expression was blank and void of emotion. Not yet fully believing what Delaney told him, he sat up and tried reaching for the spot where his right leg would be. Noticing that the sheet lay flat on the mattress he tried lifting the sheet up to look at his leg. There was a round bandage secured around his knee. His right calve was gone.

Watching the marine blow out some air, Delaney waited for the break, a term he developed over time that referred to a patient's turbulent release of emotions. Like the calm before the storm the break started quietly. Heavy breathing was the first rumble of thunder followed by a balled fist. Verbal responses were next, the lightening strikes of _this can't be's_ and_ no it couldn't have's_. Then came the downpour."

"NO!" He shouted. "I'M dreaming. NO!"

Delaney held his head down while everyone's faces winced a little.

"NONE OF THIS IS REAL!" Ripping the IVs out his arms. "DON'T TOUCH ME YOU SON OF A BITCH!" His arms started flying. A few of his comrades lunged forward to restrain. "GET OFF OF ME!"

Croix was becoming very irate forcing everyone to hold him down. The screaming and yelling continued for a few more moments. Gradually, the flurry of sadness, anger, and frustration died down into tears and incomprehensible murmuring. Some of the marines embraced their comrade trying to calm him down._ I hate this part_.

"Take care of him fellas." Delaney said solemnly.

Gently closing the door behind him, he reached for a cigarette heading down the hallway. Stopping to light the cigarette Delaney wondered if he really needed to amputate the calve. None of the supporting surgeons argued with him, in fact, most of them agreed. But wasn't there always an exception? Could this young man have been one of them? The thought began to pain him and he started to blame himself. _If only I took a little more time, I could've done something_.

But then the difficulties of repairing a severed leg soon became obvious to him. There was no possible way that all the muscle tissue could have grown back. Enough shrapnel was lodged into the leg to cause an infection, which may or may not have been deadly. And such instances made being a doctor very hard indeed. Trying to sift through so many possible outcomes and being allowed to choose only one was exactly what Delaney hated about his job. He wanted to make sure he made the best possible decision, not for his sake, but for the sake of the patient. That was a hard act to follow. _Maybe I'm a martyr, taking on the weight of the world_. His job was a contradiction in so many ways and at times he believed his ability to kill affected his concentration under the knife. _Have I killed so many men that my mind had become accustomed to killing everything? Are my actions on the operating table killing a man or saving him? No, this is crazy. I do the best damn job I can and even though I kill people I separate the two._ There was always a lot to consider as a doctor. Delaney just wished that being a doctor wasn't so damn complicated.

---

The waiting always got to him. Not that he loved combat and not that he hated it either. He was just the kind of person that preferred to get things done and over with. There were past moments he could recall in which he was ordered to saddle up and get ready to go in. But as many times as he was told that he was going into combat he was also told that he was not, usually at the last possible moment. _Make up your damn mind. Either you send us in or you don't._ These sentiments were also the same for how he felt about some young women he met. He crossed paths with a few that he thought he would be able to talk to with some degree of ease. But as he soon learned things were never that simple. There were those who appeared as if they wouldn't mind talking to him and for a few weeks that's how it seemed. Simple conversation and no pressure whatsoever. Then the signs started to appear. Leaving messages and not getting a reply or the standard _can I call you back later_. These were familiar patterns that he had learned to identify in young women he met. Whenever these patterns started to occur that was his signal to drop all attempts and move on. Besides, it wasn't like any woman would wait for him. He was simply tired of trying. Lazarre was a real patient young man but patience was something that really tried him as well. Friends and family said that his time would come, but yet here he was, still without a significant other and the slightest idea of how a relationship worked. Could he have possibly been doing things the wrong way? He definitely thought so several times before. _Maybe I bug 'em too much, maybe I don't let 'em breath, or maybe I try too damn hard._ Lazarre felt like it would take him several lifetimes to get things right. One life was all he had and as he saw it he was destined to die alone.

But there was one dichotomy that angered and confused the hell out of him. Again and again he would hear people tell him that he never gave women a chance to get to know him._ How the hell was that possible if they never give me a chance_, he would often wonder. As far as he saw it, it was kind of hard to give someone a chance to know him if they didn't even notice him. Someone told him to go out on a limb and take risks. For the most part, he did, a couple of times at least. And out of all those times he _went out on a limb_ he ended up getting his feelings hurt. That was the same repetitive cycle. You think someone wants to get to know you only to find out they never wanted to talk in the first place. The pain would have been easier to swallow if they told him, up front, that they wanted to have nothing to do with him. He never liked women that could never make up their mind and that's how he started to see all women. That was a very vain and sad stereotype he had developed. But after being hurt so many times he really started to not give a damn.So here he was, a fighting sailor, half a world away, with no woman to talk to. Looking out towards the endless expanse of the ocean only served to frustrate him. _Combat, boredom, combat, boredom_. A change was needed but _that _change, whatever it was, was not occurring. He just wanted something different from this monotonous and dangerous lifestyle. A lot of the guys he grew up with managed to establish meaningful relationships. There were also just as many that had superficial relationships. But meaningful or superficial all he wanted was a taste of what love should have been. Was that really too much to ask for?

What frustrated him even more was the lack of answers. Lazzare could spend an eternity creating questions and spend an eternity trying to answer them. It was quite possible that he was making too much out of what should have been a rather insignificant problem. If the problem were insignificant then Lazzare wouldn't spend hours awake at night trying to understand why no woman would love him. Many answers crossed his mind, some of which were completely absurd and others that made a lot of sense. Only problem was that he couldn't always separate the absurd from the sensible. Trying to answer questions about love was like trying to explain metaphysics to a dog. Impossible. At times Lazzare believed he was the dog unable to understand any bit of advice that people gave. He heard what they had to say, but he never quite new how apply what they told him. Stubbornness and anger were likely reasons why he never understood what people where trying to tell him. Letting go could have helped. But for a man to admit that he needed help was an extremely hard thing to do. Lazzare wanted to be free from his normal and uneventful life. Combat was not uneventful, but combat was not something he really enjoyed. He just wanted something new and different, something to look forward to. _No. Someone to look forward to_. Where the hell are you baby, he whispered, where the hell are you?

All he wanted was a life different from what he had known. Lazzare had a great life otherwise. His family loved him, his friends looked out for him, and he was fortunate enough to be alive. Such blessings were great to behold but they were not enough for him. Lazzare was missing one piece to life's puzzle and that piece, he believed, was love. Hopefully he would end up finding that puzzle piece. Would that be the cure for all life's problems? That was a difficult question to answer. The tossing ocean certainly wasn't about to answer and neither were the dreary gray skies. Did every answer have to be revealed through words? Maybe or maybe not. Lazzare chuckled as he headed back into the ship, imagining that he'd have an epiphany one day and everything would suddenly make sense to him._ How nice would that be?_

---

Michiko's life had worn down to a predictable routine of sneaking, shooting, and looking. That was all sniping really was when he thought about it. Not terribly exciting after being in the box about a hundred times. Every now and then something would come along to make the monotonous routine easier to bear. Today he had to the chance to read a newspaper, something he had not done for quite a while. Heading into the library he immediately picked up the Sports section of the Washington Post only to find out that his beloved Washington Redskins had lost in the second round of the playoffs. Michiko really hoped they would pull it off this time. But once again the curse plagued the franchise yet again. It just had to be a curse. _No way the 'Skins could have lost at the same spot eight years in a row_. A win would have been a pleasant escape from this war. _Better luck next time fellas_.

Deciding to leave the library, Michiko headed back to his bunk. He would have stayed to watch the television. But the top story only had politicians bickering back and forth. _Yeah, you assholes bitch and whine while we get shot at_. Politicians were people he lost respect for long ago. _You can't love everyone_, he sighed.

Two minutes later he was reaching under his bed for his box of cleaning supplies. _I love housekeeping_, he laughed. Cleaning weapons was always a chore, something the sniper didn't particularly care for. But it was worth the time. _A clean weapon never jams_, he reminded himself. Michiko still wished he could escape the maddening plight of routine. No matter how hard he tried he could never escape it. Keeping his rifle clean only seemed to reiterate that point.

Life, Michiko believed, must not have liked him very much. For if it did, then he would have had a nice childhood and a chance to escape this dangerously mundane lifestyle. All the training and all the missions proved to be a scary and yet dull repetitive series of events. Nothing would have been better if he could have just got one break, just one. _That would be nice_, he mused. _Naw_, he reneged,_ it was never going to happen. Besides buddy, you're in a war, no time to dwell on fluffy hopes and dreams._

His soul was beginning to dull, at least that's what he thought. Hope, emotion, he was void of both. Of course he could laugh at a good joke every now and even appreciate the strong bond he shared with his teammates, his friends. These were just a few of the emotions he did experience. But last, they never did. Appreciating the good things in life was something that Michiko never learned to do. He may have been able to kill a man from more than six hundred yards away. Embracing emotion on the other hand, he could not. _It's a waste of my time. I can get angry, but my troubles are still there. I can cry, but when I open my eyes, I end up right where I started._ His attitude could have been quite the opposite, if only his past were more accommodating.

As a child, Michiko routinely observed violence. As an adolescent, he endured abuse. Now a man, he unleashed pain and death. He had evolved into a trained killer. Certainly, he thought, his past had something to do with that. Did it really? The circumstances that befell him were not the outcomes of choice. They were simply due to the fluid currents he had drifted upon throughout his life. Wherever they flowed, he went. Like a shell from the sea, he could not choose what shore he washed up on, and life had plenty of shores. Michiko happened to drift to the shores of killers._ Could it have been the other way around?_ That all depended on what his destiny was, a question he tried to answer countless times before only to arrive at more confusion. Life was so complicated and he wondered if God or anyone for that matter would give him a straight answer. His drunken father certainly wouldn't.

Since running away from home for what felt like forever, Michiko always saw himself being a bigger man than his father. _I never got drunk and I never hit a woman in my life_. Falling on hard times was not his father's fault by any means. But he could never forget the monster his old man turned into. _Everyone has trouble, but you never take it out on your family._ Michiko was definitely a good man in comparison to his father. But now, he was starting to doubt that.

Snipers, he came learn, had not garnered the best of reputations over the years. They were silent stalkers, hunters of men and phantoms in the shadows. Some men even viewed them as cowards, men too afraid to face their victims up close. Michiko was beginning to realize how cruel he was. He took lives without a second thought. Fathers, sons, brothers, and soldiers, he killed them all, men who fought for what they believed in. They were only bad guys as mere targets and objectives. Michiko had a feeling that that was the not the _right_ way to look at a human being. But that was how he was trained to fight. Looking at targets as human beings only complicated matters and complicating matters in time of war could yield deadly results. Michiko had that doctrine hammered into his head as a SEAL. _Am I better than my father if I kill people? He may have hit my mother and beat me, but he never killed a man._ True that may have been, but Michiko was quick to stop justifying the actions of an abusive father and focus on justifying the man _he _was.

The life of a sniper was unglamorous. You slogged through mud, passed up showers, stayed awake for days at a time, and had to remain still in quite uncomfortable positions, all for the sake of not being seen. Taking lives was what you did, whether you enjoyed the responsibility or not. Michiko accepted such a life else he would not have been a SEAL. Killing people, naturally, was not right. But Michiko believed he was doing a job that no one else wanted._ I squeeze the trigger so you don't have to. I experience hell so you don't have to._ That was a major sacrifice on his part. His father could have never made such a sacrifice and it was that realization that settled the issue for Michiko. _My father is the coward. Not me._

---

"Okay baby… Yes… Huh… Yes, I know… But… I understand. Of course I love you… No, I'm not coming home for another few weeks… I'm sorry… I got to go baby." Kaufman hung up the phone sighing deeply. Sometimes his girlfriend talked too much.

"Doesn't seem to happy does she?" Dillon asked.

"The chick is so damn impatient. I swear." Kaufman groaned.

"Well, be happy you ain't married yet. A whole new ball game." Dillon patted Kaufman on the back and headed out to the deck. Kaufman followed.

"Almost made that mistake once." Kaufman chuckled. "Something about commitment just scares the hell out of me." _Shit, I'd rather get shot_.

"I wouldn't call marriage a mistake, is just a choice you gotta be sure about. Not really something you can half-ass. You have to know what you're getting yourself into."

"Wonder if marriage has a disclaimer?" Kaufman asked half jokingly.

"Nope. Don't think it does and neither does war."

"How true."

"Yeah, it seems like with war and marriage you go in blind, not knowing what the outcomes will be but still hoping everything turns out okay."

"Funny you compare war and marriage."

"Both require sacrifices, important ones at that. You may not die in marriage, but it requires you to give things up. Just like war, it's a give and take."

"True I guess." Kaufman agreed. "But don't really think all this marriage talk means much to me."

"Every man his own opinion, sailor. At least you haven't been as dumb as me."

"How do ya mean?"

"I've come to the realization that being married and being in the military was probably the dumbest thing I've ever done. Stresses folks out."

"You can get a discharge anytime you want can't ya?"

"I would, but we're technically still at war and that would be kind of stupid to just up leave having you guys adjust to a new leader."

"Wouldn't be as bad as you think, sir. I mean there aren't many of us here SEALs that don't know each other. We'd adjust, besides, sir, isn't your family more important than this?"

"They are, can't get around that. Just wish I could hurry up and make that decision."

"Won't pester you with it any longer, sir. Its your choice."

Kaufman was right. The choice was his and his alone._ Got yourself in a damn pickle again buddy_. Dillon was stuck between his team and his family. As a leader his men depended on him. As a husband, he loved his wife. _Do I?_ Good husbands don't break promises and he had broken plenty of them. Getting a discharge was one such promise he broke. He constantly told his wife he would do so, but never did. It saddened him that he was decisive in battle, but indecisive in life. Unable to make up his mind about leaving the Navy, was something that kept him awake at night. What use was he to his wife if he was on some ship, half a world away? And if he died, would that make his wife feel any better? Of course it wouldn't. There was something noble about wanting to lead his team into harm's way. But even his men were telling him to take care of his family. Dillon knew his men would adapt to any circumstance, even a new leader. Would they hate him for it? No, because if they did, then Kaufman would not have offered him such sound advice. His men wanted him to make the right decision. Dillon had given the Navy a solid ten years. Did they really need him any longer?

"So how's the girl back home?" Dillon asked.

"Oh Jeeze." Kaufman ran his fingers through his hair. "It's complicated. Sort of like a love-hate kinda thing."

"Well it sounds like you two are trying to keep it together."

"We are, sir. But I have no idea how long it'll stay like this. Only a matter of time before I have to move on."

"Sometimes people gotta part ways."

"You're right. I'm young enough. Got a few more years to go fishing. Just gotta stop breakin' all these damn hearts." _I do break everything I touch don't I?_

"We've all done that at some point. I've done it and just about every other man on the face of this earth."

"But how many of 'em have had sex with another woman while being engaged?" Kaufman leaned on the railing overlooking the ocean. "And that's just the icing on the cake for me."

"I can see you ain't too proud of that. You're still trying at least. Doing better than me."

"Thanks for the compliment sir but I honestly beg to differ. I have treated women like shit. Now I see why I can't seem to keep a relationship going. Hell sir, you're married and have a kid on the way. Sure, your old lady may be upset about you breaking promises to get a discharge. But that ain't nothing compared to the man I've turned to. There are plenty of things I have said and done to make my own mother turn her back on me."

Kaufman had a lot on his plate, Dillon realized. The situation with his wife was nothing compared to what Kaufman was dealing with. Dillon may have had problems, but Kaufman had demons. Kaufman was fighting a war against himself. He was both friend and foe trying to become a man that actually loved women, instead of taking advantage of them. They were only objects to him, playthings that existed for the sake of his pleasure. Why he treated them so bad, he had yet to answer that question. Killing an enemy soldier on the battlefield was a chip shot compared to killing his demons. _Do demons ever die? Maybe, maybe not._ Overcoming personal demons was not as easy as one, two, three. Kaufman wished it were. But as the saying goes, old habits die hard.

"Not gonna try and offer you some bullshit advice on that. Know I can't really say much, but damn buddy, hope you pull through."

"You shouldn't feel bad, sir." _Honestly._ "This is my battle to fight. Hopefully I'll be a man that can actually respect a woman. I'm trying damn hard with this one. I mean, I've held back from bad habits and harsh words. Just want this to work so bad. But it's all up to me I guess."

"If only Ike Turner worked so hard." Dillon tried to lighten the mood.

Kaufman laughed. "Shit if that happened, then we would never have such good love songs. Everyone needs some kind of motivation y'know."

"Jesus, you're sick." Dillon coughed in surprise.

"But hey like you said. Least I'm trying."

"That's what you should concentrate on. But enough of me blowing sunshine up your ass. You got me feeling like Doctor Phil."

"Who knows there may actually be life for ya after the Navy." Kaufman teased.

"Don't push it sailor." Dillon threatened.

"Hey just offering you some sound advice. Besides, had to return the favor."


	5. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Making The Rounds

They couldn't decide what was worse. Watching their captured comrades being paraded through the streets like cattle or the stinging realization that they lost the war. Marines were not the type to be angered but no one seemed to care, least of all the media. Reiteration of the American defeat in Yemen seemed to be the top story. News networks sought out the opinions of supposed military experts. What they had to say was absolutely sickening.

But the media was the least of their problems. They had to mend a problem from within. Throughout the Iwo Jima an aura of tension hung heavy in the air. An underlying current of animosity had developed between the enlisted men and the commanding officers. A special trust, which these marines had forged over the years, was slowly starting to collapse. Enlisted personnel began to wonder whether or not those leading them into harms way knew what they were doing. All of the enlisted had seen at least two people they knew die in combat. These rather frequent occasions of death elicited many questions. Were the officers making right decisions or were they hastily putting together plans of attack? But in actuality the frequent deaths were simply the result of the fog of war. The officers were doing the best they could. Death was just a part of life they had to contend with. None of them asked to go to hell and back and none of them certainly wanted to lose any men. Most of the enlisted however, failed to see it that way. Their commanding officers used to be men they looked up to and respected. They relied on these brave men to bring them back in one piece. Yet, in the face of mounting casualties that faith and reverence began to disappear.

Mutinous and incompetent were words the commanding officers used to describe the enlisted. While such descriptions were not becoming of a marine, a few absolutely refused to fight. Those wayward souls were severely dealt with and threatened with either a court marshal or a dereliction of duty charge. But the threats worked to no avail. War had taken the fight out of these marines. Their future in the Corps was of no more concern. All they wanted to do was get away from the fight even if that meant a prolonged stay at Leavenworth. Despite a small number of mutinies most of the enlisted remained rather true to their responsibilities. While most of them were not happy about their situation, they dutifully obeyed orders. Though some protest sprang up every now and then the enlisted completed their responsibilities. Sadly, the few mutinous incidents were what defined the enlisted in the eyes of the officers. If only they knew how hard they were trying. A marine was _Semper Fidelis_.

War was becoming an enduring hardship for everyone. A good length of time had passed since the hardships of a recent occupation. The marines who remembered the conflict considered their deployment an insult. As far as they were concerned that past administration left them for dead. They did nothing but fantasize about money while hundreds of young soldiers, marines, airmen, and sailors perished.

The current conflict was a little different. But that did not make the least bit of difference to these marines. It was pointless, in their eyes, to fight a losing battle. Marines still believed they were the toughest fighters in the world. Yet they also wanted to live to fight another day. Standing around and getting slaughtered was not necessarily the best way to fight a war. Only the politicians at home did not care. In their minds it was absolutely necessary to stop the expansion of an _Evil Empire_. Freedom could not stand on the sidelines while tyranny reared its ugly head. Most of the marines would have believed the fancy rhetoric, but they knew what was really going on. Everything would have been different if people just paid attention. Problems could have been thwarted years ago, when the CAR was in its infancy. But due to a pointless military campaign years before no one wanted to go back to the Middle East. Perhaps it was time for America to pay for her sins. If only those sins did not have to be paid for in blood.

Operations in the region finally came to a close, allowing the Iwo Jima to retreat to the safety of the Indian Ocean. Now it sat anchored in the middle of the waters awaiting the arrival of more ships. War was over. But a few people had a feeling that after returning home they would eventually return to this hell. Maybe a taste of heaven was all they needed. Three months away from the battlefield meant the world to some of these marines. Unfortunately, the effects of defeat and death weighed heavy on their hearts. Those who managed to survive the ordeal felt lucky to be alive. They had a chance to see their loved ones yet again and for a time, forget all about the hell they fought through. But could they ever forget the haunting visions of the battlefield?

A ceasefire agreement may have been reached. But according to Dillon that was no excuse to remain sedentary. When you're not at war, you're training. When you're not training, you're at war. Dillon hammered this concept into the heads of his men over and over again. As far as he was concerned you never knew the minute or the hour that you would be called upon. Though the war had been lost, Dillon wanted to be sure that he and his men would be ready for anything. Of course, he could have been acting a little paranoid. But training made sure everybody was prepared. Better safe than sorry.

The deck of the Iwo Jima was changed into a makeshift killhouse. It wasn't the standard type of killhouse the SEALs were used to training with but it would have to do. Several steel targets were set up and hidden amongst the various helicopters and equipment resting on the deck. Dillon and his men were to progress along the length of the deck, engaging targets along the way. Live ammunition would be used for this exercise. That may have put them in serious danger, but Dillon wanted to make this exercise as real as possible. Using real bullets was not a means of showing off. In fact, it was quite the contrary. The use of real bullets would force everyone to check their shots and fire accurately. They trained hard to avoid mistakes and avoiding mistakes during training would prove invaluable during the real thing.

Each one of Dillon's men had a unique skill. Delaney was a corpsman, Kaufman knew how to blow things up, Lazzare could use a heavy gun, Michiko could shoot through a rabbit's heart from five hundred feet away, and the stooges could clear a room, like a can of bug spray clears a beehive. But regardless of what they were good at, all of them knew the basics of fire and maneuver. Such were skills that every one of these men knew how to use with unique proficiency. Training would make sure that it stayed that way.

Black balaclavas, olive green coveralls, and black tactical vests identified these men as a special breed of warrior. From the way they stood to the way they held their weapons everything about these elite fighters beckoned respect. They aligned themselves with the precision of a military drill team. Their movements resembled a carefully choreographed dance, which for the sake of these sailors, was a choreographed dance of battle.

Making their way across the deck eyes scanned rapidly from left to right. Index fingers rested on the triggers ready to apply pressure at the first sight of a target. All hearts were beating rapid anxiously waiting for the moment to shoot. Combat, this was not, but the intensity burning in their eyes could have proved otherwise.

"Got two left!" Dillon called out.

Appearing a few feet away from a helicopter were two steel blue targets. In a single motion, everyone's weapon turned left. Triggers were depressed sending a flurry of bullets through the air. An ensuing series of "pings" and "pangs" announced that the leaden trajectories had reached their destinations. Effectively neutralizing two inanimate objects the sharpshooters continued their rapid pace unimpeded.

"Three at our three o'clock." Garson identified.

Scattered about an empty weapons cart and a few sailors were three more targets. Dillon and his team were surprised at the sight of living people but took less than a second to adapt. They aimed down their sights and loosed off a series of quick bursts towards the familiar blue objects. A couple of sailors cursed in fear as bullets zipped through the air. But after two seconds it became obvious they were still standing. Exhaling a deep sigh of relief, the young sailors realized just how good the guys with the guns were.

Footsteps suddenly hastened as the skilled shooters reached the last stretch of deck. Their guns darted from point to point with hopes of spotting a target. But looking for such objects amongst the immense clutter of aircraft and equipment was like looking for a needle in a haystack.

"I got one!" Michiko yelled out firing a quick burst.

"Two down!" Delaney reported as he fired on two more targets.

"Another down!" Mendez found his target.

"Some at our two!" Dillon reminded everyone.

Garson and Milloy found them first. Four targets were standing next to a fuel tank. They narrowed their eyes, tightened their palms around the grips, and took a deep breath. Hitting these targets was going to be like a deadly game of darts. A missed shot would poke more than an eye out.

"Cease fire!" Dillon held up a fist.

His men stopped in their tracks, rifles still up and ready to fire. They only lowered the weapons when Dillon ordered them to.

"Put on safe fellas." Dillon advised. "And you two. Good shooting."

"Really? Because I was aiming for the bird." Garson joked.

"Yeah, same here." Milloy added. "Didn't want to hit those little blue metal things. What are they called again?" He grinned.

"Well if that was a miss I'd like to see what happens when you actually hit something." Dillon played along. "All in all though. Great job gentlemen. Gave the bad guys a run for their money today. Would like to work on that speed a little bit next. But regardless, shooting was god like, as always. Now we got another playground set up below deck. Days not over yet, gentleman. Hooyah!"

"Hooyah!" All confidently replied.

Dillon led his team below. He thought they did an excellent job on deck. But another practice wouldn't hurt them. Even the best needed practice sometimes.

---

When Jaffer remembered how torn up his helicopter was the other day, it suddenly occurred to him how lucky he was. He never really dwelt upon the danger of his job. But today he did and it troubled him a little. Maybe it was because he had a chance to sit back and think on the calm ride. Was he getting cold feet or was he just looking into things too much? Getting shot at in the recent hostilities was nothing new. But to have his bird disabled for a time was. Trying to fly the helicopter was his top priority. Paying attention to bullets only distracted him. His job was to move people across the map. Bullets were dangerous things, but not as dangerous as crashing into the ground. Jaffer had to remember, despite the sudden case of worry, that he was still alive. He survived the war and when he thought about that was all that really mattered.

Take off was a little rusty, but once the accompanying pilot told him where all the proper switches were, everything came rushing back to him. _Nothing but torque and cyclic_, he reminded himself.

Today's flight was rather uneventful. He wasn't getting shot at, which was a good thing and the skies were pretty clear. Air traffic was minimal allowing Jaffer time for some much needed peace and quiet. But the marine sitting next to him felt like conversing. _Can't get everything you want._

"I take it you haven't flown this thing in a while." The pilot asked.

"Nope. Kinda like getting reacquainted with a long lost friend if you ask me." Jaffer replied.

"Guess that explains the takeoff then." The marine joked.

"Didn't kill anyone fortunately."

"Yeah." He paused. "Seen enough of that."

"No need to tell me twice. Seen my fair share of the dead."

"Haven't we all?"

"Sucks to die with your boots on doesn't it. Bet you boys are happy you don't have to go into the box anymore."

"Hoorah to that!" The marine replied excitedly. "We've lost enough birds already. Matter of fact, that guy that died in that Osprey crash the other day. We both went to flight school together. Great guy, was always bragging to us about his wife and all. Has a cute kid too. But doesn't look like they'll be seeing him anytime soon."

"Damn." Was all Jaffer could manage.

"Yup." The marine sighed. "Hated to see him go down like that. Sad thing is they're gonna have to give him a closed casket. No need to elaborate on what that means."

"Yes, please. I've seen enough injuries to make me wake up in cold sweats for the next ten years."

"You flew some of our boys out?"

"Sure did. You really shouldn't be surprised though. All those injuries combined with overextended pilots. guys needed all the help they could get."

"Yeah, think you're right." The marine realized. "So what you do before things got bad?"

"Deliver SEALs to the battlefield. Real good friends of mine as a matter of fact."

"At least someone cares for the crazies."

"Hey, your Recon boys ain't fall too far from the tree either." Jaffer joked.

"Have to agree with ya there." The marine laughed in concurrence. "I mean anyone who can sleep before going into the hornet's nest just ain't wired right."

"Y'know, sometimes I think the same thing. But I'll tell ya one thing, if I ever go down in the shit, I wouldn't have any other guys coming in to get me out." Jaffer admitted.

"I hear that." The marine nodded in agreement. "Let's just hope things don't get that bad for either of us."

"Don't think that kind of thing's gonna happen anytime soon. Just wish our Osprey driver could have said the same thing."

"Well you know what they say. We're all in a dangerous business and when you work in a dangerous business shit is bound to happen."

"And to think I've always taken such a saying as a joke." Jaffer mused. "Ain't too funny when you're bleeding your guts out, is it."

"Nope, not at all. You get a whole new understanding for death when you actually know someone who's gone to the other side. A little haunting come to think of it."

"Stuff like that makes you wonder if there's anything beyond this place called life."

"You shouldn't worry my friend. We got a saying in the Corps_, If the Army and the Navy ever look on Heaven's scenes. They will find the gates are guarded by United States Marines_." The marine grinned.

"Thanks for the assurance. Now I can rest peacefully knowing I'll see you guys standing next to Saint Peter." The naval aviator said.

"Would you have it any other way?"

"God needs someone to kick Satan's ass."

"Exactly." The marine noted. "Turn heading zero-niner-five. The Burke should just be coming up on the horizon."

"Hope I can land it better than I took off."

"Got my trusty parachute with me in case you can't."

"You have anything constructive to say?" Jaffer gave a sarcastic smile.

"Don't kill us." The marine laughed.

Jaffer shook his head an ignored the comment. He scanned the horizon and sure enough the Arleigh Burke was coming into view. _So far so good. Now all you gotta do is land this thing._ Gently lowering collective the helicopter gradually began descending to a lower altitude. Jaffer kept an eye on his altimeter and speedometer making sure they were well within a safe range. _Nothing I can't do._

Soon things became automatic. For a moment Jaffer felt like he was flying his Seahawk once again. The good ole Huey wasn't such a bad bird after all. But maybe that was due to all the upgrades it received over the years. Jaffer didn't complain though. All he needed was an aircraft that could get him from point A to point B. A Huey could get the job done just like a Seahawk.

The Burke was only a few hundred feet away. Jaffer raised the nose on the helicopter slightly to begin to tricky maneuver of descending upon a moving ship. Fortunately, the marine flying with him was telling him where the ship was at all times. Jaffer really could have done it himself, but he wasn't to type to turn down help.

Eventually, Jaffer brought the helicopter to a hover about fifty feet above the landing pad. His hands tightened around the controls while his eyes paid rapt attention to the small deck below. Ten seconds later, Jaffer and his co-pilot were safely on the deck of the Arleigh Burke.

"Can I open my eyes now?" The marine joked.

"Naw. Keep 'em closed." Jaffer replied cutting off the engine.

"Oh, we're safe. Thanks for not killing us."

"Anytime." Jaffer grinned taking off his helmet.

"Wonder if they got anything to eat around here?" The marine asked as he opened the door.

"You can't wait 'till we get back?"

"Skipped breakfast to give you flying lessons." The marine chided.

"Appreciate the sacrifice buddy. So you think I'm qualified?"

"Um." The marine hesitated. "We landed and we're alive. Sooo. Yeah, you're qualified." Patting Jaffer on the back.

"Well, guess I should look forward to flying the Huey then. But enough of me running my mouth. I'm kind of hungry myself."

"Great, 'cause I'm starving."


	6. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

What Do You Think?

There are two kinds of assurance. The kind found within and the kind found in others. For some, assurance in others is the only way to find confidence. Sad as this fact may be, not everyone is blessed with limitless amounts of self-confidence.

Doubting Thomas could not have been a more perfect moniker for Milloy. As an adolescent he was not known for his popularity. His lanky form and naturally shy demeanor served to inhibit any chance for his self-confidence to blossom.

Milloy was not always such a confident warrior. He used to be a person that never quite believed he was worth much of anything. If you tried to tell him he was handsome, he would say he was ugly. You told him he was smart, he would say dumb. It had never occurred to him that he really was a bright young man.

Several years later, Milloy thought he changed. The days of doubting Thomas were finally behind him. Victory was his. Unfortunately, for lack of better words, Milloy was dead wrong. On the battlefield, confidence was never an issue. He loyally followed orders, would give his life for fellow comrades, and never question his commitment to country. As a warrior, Milloy was confident. But as a man, he was one of such little faith.

Over and over he would be warned that his lack of faith would lead to a sad and worthless existence. It was not his family, not his friends, not his pastor, and certainly not his pshrink that warned him of such a negative lifestyle. So, if the advice was not uttered from the mouths of these familiar faces, then who? Ironically it was someone much closer, himself.

A two front war had befallen Milloy. He had to fight a war on the battlefield and a war in his soul. Compared to a war on the battlefield a war in his soul was much more difficult. Milloy was a man stuck between heaven and hell. For years he tried to balance his somewhat fragile faith with his deadly profession. At times it was quite hard for him to understand just how God could love a man that killed for a living. His life lacked a true meaning as far as he was concerned. Taking lives while destroying his own was not what he envisioned a career in the Navy to be. Every life he took and every personal failure that had cursed him was killing him slowly. He had been searching for redemption for a while. Maybe he needed to find God or maybe he just needed to find himself. Regardless of the road he traveled, both were surely difficult journeys, difficult journeys, that for the most part, Milloy preferred not to embark upon.

As was customary Milloy was going on one of his usual rants with his fellow teammate. The two of them stood on the deck of Iwo Jima staring out across the Indian Ocean. Such an empty sight got Milloy's often-philosophical mind churning once again.

"Sort of depressing when you look at it, huh?" Milloy said randomly.

"What ya mean?" Garson asked.

"The ocean. Nothing but emptiness out there." Milloy replied.

"Not really a whole hell of a lot to look forward to."

"Yup. Life can be the same way sometimes. We search for something but never end up finding it."

"Guess that bright light at the end of the tunnel ain't heaven then."

"Maybe. Maybe not." Milloy shrugged his shoulders.

"But you'd like to think that life was something more meaningful than just a nasty, short, and brutish existence."

"Sorry man, but I don't think I can think of life in any other way." Garson apologized. "But don't let my opinions stop you from trying to find that elusive something. Whatever the hell that is."

"I was just thinking about the Biblical story of Exodus. You know I'm not a religious person. But this has been on my mind for quite some time. Exodus, as I see it, is like a metaphor for the story of our lives. Just imagine if you believe in God for a sec. Personally I think God is trying to show us that life isn't all happy go lucky. As a matter of fact it can be pretty damn shitty. I mean it was shitty for the Israelites. They were slaves first. It took them 40 years to reach Canaan and like ninety percent of 'em died."

"Not the best of odds." Garson managed.

"Yeah, you're right. Not the best of odds. But hey, eventually they made it. Life is the same way. Through all the pain and the shit life throws at us, we manage to pull through, one way or another. Like all those Israelites that did in the desert, so do we. Granted we don't die literally, pieces of us do. For instance, our hopes, dreams, our confidence, love. All those things die and fade away. Sorta like this Godsmack song I listen to. Think the guy says, uh, 'my fears come alive in this place where in this place where I once died'. Now, where am I going with this? All of us find ourselves in or recall situations where everything went to hell. We where depressed, angry, terrified. We felt a variety of emotions. But once we realize we made it through those times, just the mere fact we survived causes those fears to subside."

"So who or what do you think is responsible for helping us out of these so called shitty times?" Garson asked just out of curiosity.

"It could be just about anything. Some may give credit to God, whereas others may just give it to blind luck. I'm not trying to be like one of those Jehovah's Witness's knocking down your door. It's just that, for me, I think something beyond me has something to do with this. I think I'm startin' to understand some things here. Just like God supposedly delivered the Israelites, I think he is trying to deliver me. I mean, I have died many times before, but it was that force that brought me to life again. Sorry for this rant here, but I just need someone to listen to my crap. Kinda helps me to find my way. Ironic to be hearing all this deep religious stuff from a trained killer."

"Well, usually I would have said you were bullshitting. But hey seems like you're on to something."

"Sometimes I think I'm in the wrong profession." Milloy laughed.

"There's always retirement." Garson replied patting his friend on the back.

"And end up scaring the shit outta my grandkids with stories of slittin' guys throats?" Milloy asked rhetorically. "I don't think so."

Garson laughed, "Hey, I'd love the thought of scaring the little bastards half to death."

"That's you, Garson. Not me." Milloy sighed.

"Hey guy, cheer up. You'll find what you're looking for. Maybe not today. But eventually." Garson smiled.

"Hope so."

Garson hid his jealously. Or was it really jealousy at all? His teammate seemed like he had it all together as if he solved one of life's greatest mysteries. Was there some benevolent force, up above, watching over him? Reflecting on his past, the answer was a big no. But Garson wondered briefly. He had gone through a lot in his life and managed to survive. His parents may have abandoned him and he was even poor for a time. But he conquered those challenges and ended up being a man that others looked up to. Garson believed he could have given up on life a long time ago. What was that thing kept him from going over the edge? There were more than enough reasons to pass up the chance to go on living. Was it God or was it his head on approach to life? The young sailor did not openly admit that he _wanted_ to believe in somebody or something. This time, however, he felt like he should have. His parents claimed to be Christians. From what little he knew about Christianity, he knew it was a religion based on forgiveness. Obviously his parents weren't Christian, because if they were they would not have kicked him out the house for smoking pot. Parents have a right to get mad but they have an obligation to take care of their children as well. Garson could never forgive his family for doing such a thing. They were hypocrites, not devout Christians. That was why Garson had refused to believe in God. He lived with Christians and _they_ left him in the cold. But then he realized there were good friends like Milloy, a man who was trying to find his purpose in life. Could Milloy have been an example of God working in mysterious ways? It had been a long time since Garson tried to believe. But after recalling Milloy's interpretation of Exodus, taking another chance on faith was not such a bad idea.

---

Delaney finally had the chance to walk away from the operating table and useless paperwork. He had no idea about how he was supposed to spend the rest of this day. Sleeping would have been a good idea. But his body was still used to catching only a few hours of sleep. Realizing he couldn't force his body to fall asleep, he opted to stay awake and wait for his body to feel tired again. Only then, did he feel like he should crash, hopefully, for a solid eight hours.

Figuring he'd have to wait before falling asleep again, Delaney decided to take some time to nurture his artistic side. Taking a seat in a dormant helicopter, he began scanning the deck, not for targets, but for something to draw. Delaney had quite a knack for being able to replicate what he saw done to even the most minute details. Many of his fellow sailors suggested he had another calling in life and they were probably right. Delaney was an excellent artist. His artwork was inspiring but inspiration couldn't save the world. Being a SEAL, made a difference, at least to him. Could he have made a difference as an artist? No one knew for sure, but at least it was food for thought.

His attention was fixated on some seagulls flying around an American flag. Striking the page with the graphite of his pencil he began to wondrous process of drawing exactly what he saw. The flag was the first object he started on. Making short marks and long marks, Delaney skillfully recreated the flowing banner. Against the backdrop of the white sketchpad, old glory looked rather lonely. _A few seagulls should give it some company._

Drawing the seagulls would be a challenging endeavor. None of them was going to sit still for him. Instead, he would have to study the features of each of the birds, taking into account head shape, wing length, even the feather texture. Delaney was a perfectionist even in his leisurely pursuits. He was determined to make this piece of art nothing short of fantastic.

"The flag looks a little crooked if you ask me." A familiar voice said.

Delaney looked up from the sketchpad. "Well, your stick figures could use a little work too." He grinned.

"Hey, those stick figures are gonna be worth millions of dollars one day." Michiko joked.

"And I'll just wait 'till hell freezes over." Delaney replied.

"Okay, okay. You're good, I'll give you that. But you still can't write your name with a rifle."

"Depends on the type of rifle you're referring to." Delaney smirked. "Maybe you just shouldn't speak anymore."

Michiko struggled to find a witty comeback. "You're lucky I don't have anything to say. But I'll think of something."

"Call me back in about five years." Delaney rubbed it in.

Michiko took a seat next to Delaney. "How's life been at the operating table?"

"Like hell." Delaney replied eyes still focused on the page in front of him. "Just happy this war's over."

"Think we all are."

"That's why I'm out here trying to take my mind off of things. Seen enough blood."

"And I thought staying on this ship was safer than being in the box."

"It is, but in exchange for not getting shot at, you see the stuff of nightmares. Over and over again. Makes it kinda hard to sleep."

"Think I'd pass out if I had to look at some of the things you've seen."

"Well, you see some nasty things too, especially after you squeeze that trigger."

"Yeah, but I only watch someone's head get knocked off from a mile away. I don't see the blood and guts up close."

"Ain't for everyone bud."

"Neither is killing people. Shoot I'd rather do what you do. That way, I can take a life, and save a life." Michiko kidded.

Delaney chuckled. "If only things were that simple. But a lot more baggage comes with this job than most folks anticipate."

"Judging by your creativity." Michiko looked at the sketchpad. "You probably could have made more money doing other things."

"You're probably right. But I've always wanted to be a doctor of some sort, even though I'm just a simple corpsman. Helping to save lives is something I've always wanted to do since I was a kid."

"And I just wanted to be a truck driver."

Both sailors had a good laugh at that.

"Hey, don't feel bad. Truck drivers are real important to us. How else would we get all our grocery food, furniture, office supplies, shit, just about anything you can think of."

"Breaker, breaker one nine. Hell no." Michiko chuckled. "I'd rather get shot at."

"After seeing the things I've seen, I'd rather do something as boring as driving a truck across the country. It's a sick routine of having to try and save a life, only to watch it fade away. I've saved plenty of people and watched just as many die. Call me wrong, but watching an enemy die is something I can live with. But seeing our guys not make it, time in and time out, is one of the worst things I have ever experienced."

"Only so much we can do man."

"I agree. It's just that when people trust you to save their lives and you fail, the feeling is miserable."

"None of us are Superman, buddy. Hell, you're doing a lot more than others can. How many people can look at a gruesome injury and keep their head on. I'm a trained killer and I couldn't even do that. You really should give yourself more credit."

"I know, but I feel like that'll only give me a big head. Ego doesn't save lives."

"Neither does stressin' yourself out. Take it easy, you're startin' to sound like an old lady on menopause."

Delaney managed a light laugh. "Maybe I am and I don't mean to act like one. I only want to do the best I can for the guys that can't help themselves. But then again, nobody's perfect."

"THANK YOU!" Michiko shook Delaney. "Now get back to that sketch, 'cause I wanna share that one mill, after the work of art goes on sale. I'm gonna see who's winning the NFC divisional. Sorry ass Cowboys are facing off against the Eagles. Two teams I hate, can ya believe it? Have fun with the artwork."

Michiko left while Delaney remained to finish his sketch. When he made an errant mark, he silently cursed to himself. As he erased the rather insignificant scratch, Delaney realized he was turning into a perfectionist. _Was I always this way_, he wondered. The possibility had never occurred to him before. Delaney started to see his passion for drawing was beginning to mirror his desire to save lives. He knew that saving the life of everyone was not possible. Some would live and some would die. You could never negotiate with death. If these musings were true, then why did Delaney lie to himself, why did he try so hard? His passion for wanting to give people a second chance at life was so strong he risked being a miserable man for the rest of his life. Was that what he really wanted, to constantly beat himself up for the things he could not change? Delaney knew he was not truly living life by thinking this way. _Was I ever supposed to?_ This may have been the sacrifice he made for others. But no one ever asked him to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders in the first place.

---

Mendez was an avid movie fan, cheesy action flicks being his absolute favorites. Each of these corny films required a blend of special ingredients. You had to have hot dumb blonde, overdone explosions, bad guys that couldn't shoot, and a single hero that manages to kill his arch nemesis in a climatic fistfight. Whoever came up with the recipe for these movies was a genius, at least in Mendez's mind.

Much to the sailor's discontent, directors were not making movies like that anymore. They aimed for realism nowadays and storylines that spoke about the human experience. Cheesy action movies may not have touched upon the deep meaning of existence. But at least they dealt with comedic displays of ego, bravery, and stupidity. All these themes accurately portray humanity, don't they? Siskel and Ebert may not have agreed, but Mendez did. Movie critics always tried to mess things up for everyone else.

It just so happened that one of the marines found a cheesy action film stored deep in his locker. With a week's worth of downtime to spare he invited a few of his comrades down to the maintenance deck to share some beers and some laughs around the small television set. Mendez decided to join the party as well. A great deal of time had passed since he had the time to enjoy such a painstakingly crafted motion picture. He definitely wasn't going to pass up a chance to see this one.

"I miss anything?" A familiar voice asked.

Mendez turned around. "Just a hot chick changing her clothes." He grinned.

"Damn." Kaufman replied sarcastically. "Well, they start shootin' anyone yet?"

"Got here just in time jefe. And… Here it goes." Mendez pointed to the screen.

A couple of marines yelled out HOORAH when someone shot off a bazooka. Mendez rolled in laughter when a handful of actors went flying thirty feet in the air.

"Y'know, I wish our stuff did that." Mendez managed between laughs.

"Shoot, if we had one of them MX four thous… Whatever the hell they called it, we'd be outta work."

"Wouldn't that be something?"

The hero pulled out a rifle and started shooting.

"Aw man, here he goes shooting from the hip, nailing guys left and right." Kaufman chuckled.

"And he's walking by the bullets treating 'em like harmless drops of rain."

"How long you think we could get away with something like that?" Mendez questioned, wiping his eyes.

"Oh, I'd say three seconds." Kaufman chortled.

After the hero managed to kill his arch nemesis, he embraced his attractive female sidekick. Everybody crowded around the screen hoping to a catch a more revealing look of the heroine.

"TAKE IT OFF! TAKE IT OFF!" The marines cheered in unison.

Just when their wish appeared to be granted, the video suddenly turned to static. In a panic, one of the marines rushed to the VCR and started to shake it. Mendez, amused by the situation, decided to comment.

"Hittin' it ain't workin' dumb ass!" Mendez shouted.

"Hey, shut your mouth Mendez. We're gonna fix this thing, just you watch." One of the marines retorted.

"Yeah, if they grow brains first." Mendez whispered, to Kaufman.

Kaufman suppressed a laugh. "C'mon man, give the boys a break."

"Not with 'em hoppin' around the television like a bunch of monkeys. Throw 'em some bananas, that may help 'em out. This is a prime example of how dumb us guys get when we see a pair of boobs."

"You are a ruthless somebody." Kaufman chuckled.

"I know, don't ya just love it?" Mendez replied, behind a wide grin.

"Well, at least it seems like your jokes are all in good faith."

"Yeah, sometimes I guess. But I just do it to make people laugh. And who doesn't like a good laugh now and then?"

"People who end up being the joke." Kaufman chided.

"They'll get over it." Mendez lit a cigarette. "Oh and look, the dumb apes got the tape to work."

Kaufman threw his hands up. "That's it. I said it. Ruthless."

Mendez laughed. "It comes with growin' up in the Bronx. You see, I saw a lot of fights in my time. Being the small guy I am, well, was, getting my stuff handed to me didn't seem like all it was cracked up to be. So I learned early, that making people laugh was a good way of preventing a spectacular ass whuppin'."

"Hold up." Kaufman said. "How the hell did a trash talker like you not get beat up? Because around here you talk so much stuff about people."

"No worries there. I had everything down to a nice routine. A whole bunch of folks know that the Bronx has some pretty rough cats growing up there. Even a few gangs here and there. I mean you had ya Puerto Rican, Black, Asian gangs, shit, just about every ethnicity had a gang. Now, talking about one of those cats to their face was never a good idea. Did my fair share of runnin' away before I got the point. Afterwards, I learned to just talk about people at certain times."

"Oh so you went back and forth on people huh?" Kaufman figured it out. "You slick bastard." He laughed.

"Old wisdom from Richard Pryor my friend. I was in every gang. Whoever was winning I'd be like, this is my side. There's always a strategy to everything."

"Gotta do what ya need to do."

"Yes sir. But I learned something else as well. Humor is universal, I mean we all laugh. To be honest, this lonely rock would be a better place if people just learned to joke around a bit. People are too damn serious nowadays. I mean as kids we laugh all the time. Why don't we laugh as adults? I dunno. Something to think about."

"I guess so." Kaufman agreed. "You ain't feeling bad whenever you're laughing, even if you're making fun of other people. "

"Wouldn't you rather laugh than be pissed off all the time? I would and doing what we do, we need as much laughter as we can get. Helps ya to kind of shrug off all the killing."

"Yup, 'cause killing gets old. Need something to take ya mind off the boredom of it all. And looks like we're watching another movie."

"What? Hooked on Phonics?" Mendez teased.

"Behave yourself."

---

Lazarre, like everyone else on the Iwo Jima, was not terribly thrilled about the arrival of a news crew. But who could blame them. The media had said some not so nice things to say about the fighting men and women, while others pretended to feel sorry them. Not every reporter may have been that way, but most of the warriors thought otherwise. Dealing with nosey people with nosey questions was this sailor's idea of fun. He did not bother complaining though. It would only make him feel worse.

Waiting around for a reporter to meet him, he began to wonder about the kinds of questions that would be asked. _No dumb ones I hope_. Dumb questions always irritated Lazarre, not necessarily those posed by reporters, but ordinary people instead. His favorite was how does it feel to get shot. What the hell do you think, he would often say. Hopefully this reporter, or whoever the hell they were, would have the decency not make such and inquiry.

What taking this guy so long, Lazarre wondered, aimlessly staring at a bulletin board. He really wanted to get this thing done and over with. The waiting was killing him. Lazarre remembered someone saying that chow was going to be good this time around. Too bad he was missing such delicious food. _Standing around waiting for this guy better be well worth my time_. If Lazarre was lucky enough, maybe he would have a short interview and have the chance to eat. _Not with those hungry bastards stuffing their faces. Leftovers? Yeah, wishful thinking, buddy_.

"You too?" Someone asked.

Lazarre looked away from the bulletin board. "Huh?" Briefly surprised. "Oh yeah. How ya been?"

"Okay I guess. Just hoping this reporter, whoever the hell he is, doesn't ask me to fly him around." Jaffer laughed.

"Don't jinx it man, they may force ya at gunpoint."

"With all the crazy things this war's thrown at us? I wouldn't be surprised."

"Neither would I." Lazarre looked back at the board. "Been to chow yet?"

"Nope." Jaffer leaned against the wall. "Heard it's the good stuff. Sloppy Joe and baked potato."

"Damn." Lazarre breathed. "The one time they get the cooking right and I'm nowhere to be found."

"How you think I feel?" Jaffer smirked. "You're not the only guy missing out."

"Still doesn't make me feel any better." Laughing to himself.

"Well, look at it this way. You're not putting all that fried food into your system. And if anyone, I thought you boys stay away from that kind of shit."

"Yeah about that." Lazarre smiled sheepishly. "You're right. I'm not supposed to be eating that kind poison."

"Damn right sailor. Think you're mother raised you to eat a well rounded meal."

"Shoot, Master Chief Beltran taught us better than that." Lazarre replied, remembering his BUD/S instructor. "He'd practically blow his top."

"Ouch." Jaffer hissed. " Wouldn't wanna see that."

"Believe me," Lazarre patted Jaffer on the shoulder. "You wouldn't."

A marine interrupted them. "Chow?" He asked.

"Sloppy Joe and baked potato." Jaffer answered.

"Better hurry up. I know you marines like to eat." Lazarre added.

"Thanks fellas." The marine ran off.

"Kid's in a rush don't ya think?" Lazzare asked.

"Yup… I'd say so." Jaffer agreed.

"Petty Officer Lazarre?" A feminine voice asked.

Lazarre was about to answer kind of rudely, but stop just short when he turned to see where the voice came from. Stunned by the sight of an attractive young woman he struggled to find something nice to say. Jaffer, who happened to be just as dumbfounded, stood up from leaning on the wall.

"Uh yeah, that's me." Lazarre came back to his senses.

"Nice to meet you." She extended a handshake. "Thea Anders."

"Welcome to the Jima Ma'am." Lazarre smiled. "How the troops treatin' ya?"

"You can tell there not too happy about us asking them questions, considering what some of the other media networks have been saying about them. But I don't blame them, they've been through a lot."

"Sure have. Just wish those bickering politicians back at home would understand that."

"So do I." Anders sighed. "We're, I mean, our network, is just trying to show how shitty this war has been. Means a lot, at least to me, that you guys put you're live in harms way so we don't have to. I figure the best way to thank you all is to tell your stories."

"Really appreciate that Ma'am. Honestly haven't heard anyone say that about us before."

Beauty had a funny way of silencing Lazarre. He was both intimidated and excited by this young woman. She was interested in who he was and seemed to actually care about others. Not only was she pretty, but a good person as well. _This woman's the best of both worlds._

He stared at her for only a few seconds, but the moment felt much longer than that. She smiled at him briefly, after which Lazarre decided to break the awkward silence.

"By the way, you can call me Mitch. Petty Officer's a little over the top." Lazarre grinned.

"Okay, I'll call you Mitch, just so long as you promised to stop calling me ma'am. My first name's fine."

"Alright then Thea, where we headed?"

"Down to the hanger. Camera crew's down there waiting for us."

Anders walked ahead as Lazarre turned around to give Jaffer a quick look. He silently mouthed good luck before Lazarre jogged to catch up.

It only took a few moments to reach the hanger. Two cameramen where busy fiddling with various pieces of equipment. Lazarre exchanged handshakes with both gentlemen before taking a seat.

"So where you from Mitch?" Anders asked.

"Takoma Park, Maryland. How about you?"

"Other side of the country. Seattle to be specific."

"Rain a lot there?"

"It's rather on and off if you ask me. But its not as bad you'd think."

One of the cameramen started placing small lapel microphones on Lazarre and Anders.

"You're a SEAL I hear. What made you want to do that?"

"Let's just say I saw way too many Accelerate Your Life commercials." Lazarre laughed. "But my father was the reason. Intel officer in the Army. Worked at some kind of mapping agency. Always used to me all about these people he met. The Special Forces guys he talked about were really cool. So sometime down the road I decided to join the Navy."

"How'd your father feel about that?"

Lazarre chuckled. "Oh, he gave me the blues. Wanted me to be Army Special Forces instead. But SEALs appealed to me a bit more."

"Sounds good." Anders said. "Okay, Mitch, my cameraman is telling me we're ready. I'll just ask you a few questions about the conflict and how you feel about it."

"Lets do it."

"You told me you're father teased you about not becoming Army Special Forces. So between the SEALs and Army Special Forces, who would you say is better."

"SEALs of course no question." Lazarre joked. "But in all seriousness I would call us equals. Both of us risk our necks on the battlefield. I respect those guys just as much as my teammates."

"Would you call that camaraderie?"

"More like fraternity. I mean anybody that is willing to shed blood in the box is a brother to me and I don't just mean Special Forces. I'm talking, Marines, soldiers, sailors, airmen, everybody that serves."

"That's interesting you mention this fraternal bond. Is this something you can actively see in the heat of the moment?"

"Not really. Too much is going on, with guys screaming and bullets going over your head. But when you actually have the chance to sit down and think about things you begin to see the bigger picture. In the grand scheme of things, regardless of politics or objectives, we're really fighting for the guys next to us."

"Intriguing you say that. The marine I just talked to was telling me that, if he was injured and had the chance to go home, he would rather work hard to get better so he could be in the fray with his buddies. Something told me he felt guilty about leaving his comrades behind. You obviously feel the same way."

"Definitely, definitely. Most folks at home think we're crazy. But they'd never understand because they've never been in battle before. I mean the guys in my team are like my family. Granted, we don't come from the same parents." Lazarre smiled. "As a family we promise to protect each other out there. We'll die for one another if we have to."

"Got anybody waiting for you back at home?"

"My brothers and parents."

"No girlfriend?"

Lazarre grinned as his face turned red. "Nope. I wish, but nope."

"Can't see why. You're a very introspective young man and not to mention brave."

"Thanks."

"Anything to thank you gentlemen on the front lines. Now back to the topic of family, the ones back at home. What was it like communicating with them during the war?"

"My mom was worried sick and so was my father. The both of them sent me emails twice a day, one for the morning and one for the evening. My brothers also talked to me every now and then always asking me how things were turning out. Both of 'em are in the Army as well. They keep telling me how much they wish they could get in the fight. Guess they hated seeing fellow warriors dying out here."

"The Army wasn't fighting."

"They couldn't. Army Special Forces yeah. But all the other boys, conventional forces were out of work. They'd just be sitting ducks out there."

"That's a first, the Army being unable to deploy its full strength."

"Yeah it is and its all because of this super weapon we call the Peace Shield. Now, I don't as much as others guys do about it, but I know it's made our lives a living hell."

"Research told me that it was a joint venture between the U.S. and the Saudis to help protect against the threat of Iranian aggression."

"That's what it was originally intended for. But no one counted on the Said fella turning against us. It's supposed to detect stealth aircraft and emit some kind of force that renders all of our weapons useless. Planes and helicopters can still fly, but they'll be useless if their weapons can't do anything."

"So why use the Navy and Marines instead, if this Peace Shield is so powerful?"

"I asked myself the same question. Military advisors told the folks back at home that it would be a one sided battle and that this Peace Shield made it impossible to get into the Arabian Peninsula. Sad thing is they didn't listen."

"Didn't we try initially?"

"Oh yeah, we tried. We tried sending tomahawks from our subs first. When those failed to destroy the Peace Shield, we tried sending in our fighters to clear the way. They were able to get a couple of kills, but it wasn't good enough. Soon enough our CAR friends started downing our flyboys. And during all this craziness we're ordered to set foot on the Arabian Peninsula, just to test the waters. That's when the real fun started. CAR fighters started bombing us since our fighters couldn't protect us and their Army just decided to run us over. After about a month and half, we were pushed back from Saudi Arabia all the way to the southern shores of Yemen. That's when we decided to get out of Dodge."

"Air Force couldn't offer any fighters?"

"They'd be too far away. Problem was, that no country was willing to offer us a base. Said threatened anyone who would assist us, with nukes. That's what prevented the Army from getting here and much needed fighters giving us close air support. In battle, without close air support, you're as good as dead."

"Did they defeat us then?"

"I wouldn't say defeated. Every dog has his day and it just wasn't ours. But like I always say, Karma has a way of getting back at people. Said will ultimately lose control of things. It's just a matter of how and when."

"Did you ever think you were going to die out there?"

"I did, but it wasn't something I necessarily feared. Death is an inevitable part of our existence and if happens while we're young then it happens. Ain't really a whole hell of a lot we can do about that. And besides, as SEALs, we're trained not to dwell on anything that can take our minds off the mission. Getting the mission done is paramount even if you're life is in danger."

"You agree with leaving this place so early?"

"Not really a matter of agreeing or disagreeing about pulling out. I'll do whatever I'm ordered to, no matter how crazy it seems. But I will say that if things aren't working and you're losing guys like we we're just pack up and rethink you're strategy. It isn't like you're abandoning things, you're just looking at for the guys that actually do the fighting. What's the saying? Live to fight another day."

"Is that the plan now?"

"To be honest, I have not the slightest idea what's next. All I know, is that all of us are just waiting for our chance to take the fight back to the enemy. It may not be the right war to fight, but I lost some good friends out there. Things like that don't go forgotten. But until we get that chance, us hear SEALs will keep training until we get the go ahead to do something."

"Well off the record, I hope you boys get that chance. Thanks for you time."

"No problem Ma'am. Uh. I mean, Thea." Lazarre shook his head. "Glad to talk to anyone who's willing to listen."

---

Hundreds of thousands of years ago human beings lived rather simply. They were hunters and gathers, people who daily scavenged for their food. Though most staunch modernists would call such an existence hostile and harsh, the reality was quite the contrary. Crimes were not committed and wars were not fought. Cooperation benefited everyone. These ancient bands of humans were not preoccupied with the trivial worries of who had what. They worked together in order to survive.

Eons later the planet is blanketed in death, poverty, disease and hunger. Suffering and strife defines what humanity calls the modern world. The differences between rich and poor are as stark as ever. Only twelve percent of the world's population lives in what is considered the developed world. Even out of that small percentile only a few million enjoy privileged and pampered lives.

Millions die from the calamities of warfare, natural disasters, and disease each year. Differences in ethnicity, religion, and nationality have created widespread hate and misunderstanding. Populations are manipulated and controlled by an exclusive minority of oligarchic elites, so far removed from the hardships of daily life. They take as they please and kill as they please, watching from afar as fellow human beings slaughter one another for pointless reasons.

Civilization was supposed to be a high point in human history. How and when did humanity lose sight of the simple egalitarianism enjoyed by its ancestors? The answer drowns in the depths of history, the ignorance of man driving it deeper and deeper. Nationalism and religious zealousness prevents all from realizing that they laugh, cry, and bleed just the same. Equality ceases to exist.

Ernest Hemingway once wrote, two roads diverged in a yellow wood, and I—I took the one less traveled by, and that has made all the difference. What does it take to save a world so far entrenched in decadence? Could taking the alternate path truly make the world a better place? Hemingway gives no indication of a definite answer. Dillon probably could though. But this begs the question, what could a trained killer such as Dillon possibly offer in the way of saving the world?

Dillon took on a responsibility that was very unpopular. Not many people smile at the thought of killing and neither did Dillon. He just followed orders. But in following orders, he made sure no one else would have to do the things he did, such as taking lives. A road of death and destruction was the one less traveled, and it was this path that Dillon chose. If anyone ever wanted to see just how ugly the world could be, all they would have to do is look through Dillon's eyes. Would that convince the masses to exist in harmony? Judging by how ugly war could be, maybe it would. Thus, by being a witness to the evils of war, Dillon could offer a lot in the way of making the world a better place.

In speaking of better places, hundreds of sailors and marines were on their way home. Nothing was more beautiful to these men and women than getting the opportunity to see familiar faces. But before they got that chance, one little thing needed to be taken care of.

Dillon was relieved to see his commander once again. No longer did he feel like a fish out of water. Commander Andrew Zellers shared a similar sense of relief. It was reassuring that one of his team leads had survived the mess on the battlefield. He had lost two and on the battlefield already. He hoped Dillon wasn't going to be the third and fortunately, as it turned out, he wasn't.

"Dillon, glad to see your head's still on." Zellers grinned.

"Glad to see you haven't killed anyone." Dillon replied as he entered Zellers' make shift office.

"Almost was." Zellers sighed. "Take a seat."

"How things been going around here?"

"Lost two team leads and a few other guys. War's been messy for all of us."

Dillon's grin faded. "It sure has. Who'd we lose?"

"Ruiz, Harther, Raddick, Senza, Kim, and Tanaka."

"Shit." Dillon hissed. "We just can't replace guys like that."

"Imagine how their families feel. I have to personally contact each and every one, explaining why their loved ones will be shipped home in flagged draped coffins. I love this job, but God damn it sucks sometimes."

"A risk we take sir. You told me that."

"Sure did, but its one of those sayings you don't dwell on. If it happens it happens. Not really a whole hell'uva lot we can do when the end comes. But what about you, how was it serving with the boys in green?"

"An optimistic bunch if you ask me."

"Really?" Zellers asked.

"Hell no." Dillon laughed. "Those boys had it quite hard. And don't even ask about the casualties."

"Oh, I've seen the numbers. Ain't too pretty."

"Wasn't really a whole hell of a lot our presence could do for 'em."

"No sense in dwelling on the past now is there. But looks like we may get the chance to do something for 'em."

Dillon sensed something. "What's up?"

"CENTCOM wants to get these guys home as soon as possible. But there's a little thorn in the way."

"There not thinking…"

"Unfortunately yes, the Red Sea. Radar station overlooking the Strait of Yemen."

"Jesus." Dillon sighed disgustedly. "They're making a mistake. It would be a hell'uva lot easier for 'em to just airlift the marines to Djibouti."

"And they are thinking along those lines. But us here sailors got to stay and get the fleet back to Greece. You know this isn't the business of criticizing. We just do what we're told."

"Guess so, huh? Well, what's the plan?"

"HALO insertion via a CH-22. But you'll exit the area by swimming. A zodiac will pick you guys up a few miles out."

"And that's the plan?"

"Yup, and I know what you're gonna say."

"The best laid plans always go to hell."

"I knew it." Zellers said. "Well that's all I got for you today. Inform your team. Briefing's at eleven hundred hours tomorrow."

"Sounds good boss. See you there."


End file.
